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A   BOOK  OF 
PRINCETON   VERSE 
1916 


A  BOOK  OF 

PRINCETON  VERSE 

1916 


EDITED  BY 

ALFRED   NOYES 


PRINCETON  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 
PRINCETON 

LONDON:   HUMPHREY   MILFORD 

OXFORD    UNIVERSITY    PRESS 

1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
Princeton  University  Press 


Published  June,  1916 


PREFACE     ^>' 

By  Alfred  Noyes 

This  book  of  Princeton  verse  is  selected  from 
poems  written  during  the  last  six  years  on  the 
Princeton  campus,  with  the  exception  of  one 
poem  by  a  Princeton  man  in  France.  With  the 
exception  of  one  contributor,  moreover,  it  is 
chiefly  the  work  of  undergraduates,  who  are 
still  in  residence.  One  or  two  contributors  are 
students  at  the  Graduate  College. 

The  book  must  be  compared,  therefore,  not 
with  the  ordinary  anthology  of  contemporary 
poetry,  but  with  some  of  those  college  anthol- 
ogies which  have  recently  attracted  attention 
in  England.  The  volume  of  Oxford  under- 
graduate verse,  edited  by  Professor  Gilbert 
Murray,  was  drawn  from  a  wider  field;  but 
the  Princeton  book  of  verse  may  more  fairly 
be  compared  with  a  selection  of  that  kind, 
though  I  feel  confident  that  it  needs  no  apol- 
ogy on  any  ground,  and  that  it  contains  a  con- 
siderable quantity  of  work  which  would  hold 
its  own  in  any  contemporary  anthology. 


sa^ 


>^j\ 


It  differs  greatly  from  those  collections  of 
verse  for  which  the  old  college  magazines  used 
to  be  ransacked.  The  greater  part  of  this  book 
has  never  been  in  print  before,  and  a  con- 
siderable quantity  was  actually  written  for  the 
book  itself. 

The  quality  of  the  work  seems  to  me  unu- 
sually fine;  and  it  has  been  selected  from  a 
large  mass  of  material  that  falls  only  slightly 
below  the  average  level  of  the  book.  This,  of 
course,  is  an  indication  of  a  remarkable  quick- 
ening of  interest  in  what  is — after  all — the  chief 
Americanizing  influence  now  at  work,  the  lan- 
guage and  literature  which  are  the  common 
heritage  of  half  the  world. 

After  the  days  of  Lowell  and  Emerson  one 
of  the  penalties  for  those  Unguarded  Gates,  of 
which  Aldrich  wrote  so  forcibly,  was  the  tem- 
porary submerging  of  the  literary  sense,  a 
looseness  of  form  and  a  consequent  looseness 
of  thought,  which  at  one  time  seemed  likely 
to  corrupt  not  only  journalism  but  even  litera- 
ture itself.  In  recent  years  there  has  been  a 
growing  reaction  against  this,  and,  rhetorical  as 


VI 


the  phrase  may  seem,  I  feel  more  strongly 
than  ever  that — in  these  times  of  black  disaster 
— the  splendid  task  of  carrying  on  the  torch 
of  literature  may  yet  be  reserved  for  America. 
Disaster  certainly  threatens  that  torch  in 
Europe;  for  the  whole  of  European  civilization 
is  menaced.  It  is  encouraging,  then,  to  find 
the  younger  men  at  an  American  university 
developing  just  those  quahties  of  lucidity, 
order,  and  proportion  which  are  the  first  es- 
sentials of  literature,  at  the  very  moment 
when  the  older  generations,  both  in  Europe 
and  America,  seem  ripe  for  chaos  in  both 
thought  and  form.  These  younger  men  seem 
to  realize  that,  just  as  a  crew  cannot  exert 
its  full  strength  until  it  has  learned  to  work 
in  harmony  and  obey  the  rhythmical  laws  of 
its  art,  so  there  is  no  grace  or  strength  in  liter- 
ature, unless  the  form  and  the  thought  be  in 
perfect  harmony,  and  the  writer  be  the  captain 
of  his  own  soul  and  of  his  own  words  also. 

I  beheve  that  there  is  a  national  significance 
in  this  quickening  of  the  Hterary  sense  among 
the  younger  men;  and  I  know  no  finer  example 


Vll 


of  the  workings  of  this  new  spirit  than  the  fol- 
lowing lines  from  a  Princeton  poet — Maxwell 
Struthers  Burt — who  falls  (by  a  very  few  years) 
outside  the  scope  of  the  present  volume.  There 
can  be  no  better  preface  to  this  book  of  Prince- 
ton verse  than  this  Princeton  poet  himself 
gives  us: 

Drums,  drums,  drums  to  the  fore ! 
The  rattle  of  drums  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
Like  the  gathering  winds  of  a  storm. 
O  men  of  the  army  of  marching  feet, 

0  ye  ^vho  came  when  your  country  cried. 
Your  footsteps  haunt  each  lane,  each  street, 
Your  blood  still  makes  the  meadows  sweet, 
And  the  uplands  where  ye  died ! 

1  have  heard  you  marching  in  noonday  heat, 
Through  country  roads  where  the  dust  turns  gray 
The  hanging  boughs  of  the  trees  that  meet 
Overhead,  and  far  away, 

I  have  heard,  as  ye  pass  at  night  along 

The  still  white  lanes,  your  bugle-song. 

Stern  young  faces  and  brave  set  lips, 

Lips  firm  set  with  the  vows  ye  swore. 

Ye  knocked  with  joyous  shining  eyes 

As  lovers  knock  at  a  garden  door 

And  plucked  the  flower  of  sacrifice. 

The  blood-red  rose  of  war. 

Still  to  your  lips  the  blossoms  bend. 

Nor  careless  time  can  crush  the  eternal  flowers, 


\lll 


Nor  rend  from  you  the  quiet,  waiting  hours 
Of  snows  and  suns  and  stars  and  showers, 
Till  the  last  muster  call  startles  the  hills. 
But  we? — ay,  what  of  us? 

Have  we  forgot  the  star-touched,  echoing  past  in  this 
so  brief  a  day? 

DuU-souled  forgot  in  lesser  strife 

The  rapt  young  visions  held  more  dear  than  life? 

Hearing  no  more  beneath  the  noises  of  the  street 

The  quiet  passing  of  your  feet? 

Yea,  ye  are  gone,  ye  men  of  sterner  race, 

Ye  youths  that  met  death  face  to  face  and  triumphed. 

No  more  the  hills  reecho  to  your  tread, 

No  more  on  uplands  bloom  the  flowers  red; 

And  we  your  sons  and  children's  sons 

Answer  no  more  the  restless  calling  of  the  guns, 

Nor  stir  within  our  sleep  for  visions, 

Gone  is  the  quickening  young  desire  for  splendid 
things, 

The  dreams  that  break  and  quiver  into  fire. 

On  Summer  nights  when  earth  is  tremulant  with  un- 
seen wings. 

What  plea  is  ours  down  the  long  courts  of  unrelenting 
time? 

That  it  were  right?    That  visions,  old,  unfit,  outworn. 

Have  served  their  making  and  must  not  be  borne, 

A  chaff  of  burdens  on  our  giant  destiny? 

For  we  are  free; 

Free,  great,  and  strong. 

To  dare  new  Gods  with  casual,  irreverent  song, 

And  build  our  temples  in  the  market-place  of  wrong. 


IX 


No  longer  need  to  make  the  haunted  wilderness  a  home, 

And  "but  a  little  path  to  God,"  the  seas: 

No  longer  need  to  bid  men  turn  with  awkward  plough 

the  loam 
And  cry,  "Here  sow  I,  Lord,  with  simple  psalteries 
In  faith  and  honest  deeds 
The  strong  clean  pregnant  seeds 
Of  this  Thy  swelling  harvest  yet  to  come." 
Yea,  we  are  fat  and  grown  white  with  pride ! 
No  need  of  prayer;  nor  any  need  of  sowing? 
For  the  splendor  loved  by  Babylon, 
For  the  purpled  pride  of  Tyre, 
We  have  worked  and  we  have  won, 
Is  the  strife,  then,  through  and  done? 
Shall  we  take  our  ease  like  potentates 
Nor  heed  the  altar's  fire? 
For  the  riches  that  were  Nineveh's, 
For  the  wares  of  Ascalon, 
For  the  high-piled  heaps  of  rotting  myrrhs. 
Shall  we  pawn  our  destiny  for  theirs? 
Shall  the  earth  shake,  quick  with  chariots, 
As  our  gods,  brute  gods,  drive  on? 
No  need  of  dreams?    We,  who  are  born  of  seers? 
We  who  are  very  children  of  a  dream  ? 
My  heart  stirs  within  me  like  a  drum 
And  I  hear  far  off  the  marching  of  a  host. 

Attend,  O  Lord  of  Visions,  to  our  prayer ! 

May  we  know  pain,  O  God,  may  we  know  pain, 
And  pave  with  blood  and  tears  our  way 


Along  the  old  forgotten  path  again 

To  find  the  sweet  strength  of  a  younger  day. 

Lo,  Thou  hast  given  us  a  land  more  dear 
Than  that  Thou  promised  to  him  of  old, 
And  we  have  made  of  it  a  drear 
Parched  place  of  tongues  a»d  bartering  gold. 

Yea,  we  are  strong,  full  strong  and  great, 
And  in  our  hands  we  hold  the  sword  of  might. 
But  gone,  O  Lord,  the  dream  to  build  our  fate 
A  beacon  flame  and  signal  through  the  night. 

Yea,  gone  are  all  the  hopes  that  kept  us  young, 
The  visions,  Thine,  of  unfulfilled  desires, 
And  in  decaying  temples,  far  outflung, 
Thy  priests  watch  lonely  by  the  dying  fires. 

O  God,  may  we  know  pain,  may  we  know  pain, 
And  find  with  tears  and  blood  the  path  again ! 

Do  we  forget? 

Forget  so  utterly? 

Nay,  it  is  not  so ! 

Only,  for  moments  does  it  seem 

That  we  have  lost  the  splendor  of  our  dream. 

We  know,  had  we  but  time  to  heed,  or  hush  the  busy 

whisperings  of  greed, 
That  stirring,  pulsing,  throbbing,  slow, 
Implacable  would  rise  the  tread 
Of  the  stern  ever-marching  army  of  the  dead. 
We — we  are  still  the  \dsioned  great-souled  breed ! 
Not  like  the  older  nations  from  decay, 


3a 


Not  wearily  we  sin, 

But  heedless,  reckless,  children  at  play, 

Straying,  we  have  a  little  lost  our  way, 

Nor  see  as  yet  the  darkness  folding  in: 

Aye — for  in  the  end,  sore  torn  and  bruised,  we, 

Like  long-lost  children,  will  return  to  Thee; 

Like  coast-born  children  weary  for  the  sea. 

And  then: — 


O  beautiful  army  of  those  who  live; 
O  shining  host  of  those  unborn; 
Into  your  hands  the  dead  years  give 
The  battle  standards  stained  and  torn, 
Save  where  aloft  unfading  gleams 
The  starlike  glory  of  old  dreams. 

Hark!    Can  ye  hear  above  the  hum,  the  clang'rous 

hum, 
The  calling  of  a  drum — 
The  far-off  calling  of  a  drum ! 


xu 


CONTENTS 

FAGB 

Armstrong,  Hamilton  Fish 

"Iota"— Napoli  i 

Vale  2 

Broadway  and  Tenth  Street  3 

After  the  Play  5 

Strange  Gods  8 

Bishop,  John  Peale 

Sea-Weed  10 

Perdita  11 

The  Witch's  Daughter.  1692                 13 

"All  Lovely  Things  I  Love"  17 

Mushrooms  19 

To  Francis  Thompson  21 

Ganymede  23 

Chapin,  Henry 

Old  Pines  31 

CoE,  Sayers 

The  Thief  33 
xiii 


CoFFm,  Robert  P. 

The  Bubble-Blower  36 

The  Serpent  of  the  Sea  47 


Coffin,  Philip  L. 

Glauce 

49 

CoNNETT,  William  Brewer 

The  Reflection 

52 

Newspaper  Values  and  the  Cub 

53 

One  Side  of  the  Medal 

55 

Creese,  Jamf.s 

The  Ascent 

58 

A  Dawn  in  Spring 

60 

A  Ballad  of  Sir  Richard  Steele 

62 

Curtis,  Pierson 

A  Japanese  Serenade  64 

Dell,  W.  Stanley 

The  Wife  of  Athemis  66 

xiv 


Green,  Harrington 

Tavern  Song 

68 

King  Solomon 

70 

Wisdom 

72 

The  Goddess  of  Chance 

75 

Aristophanes 

77 

Dreams 

78 

To  Francois  Villon 

79 

The  Canal-Boat  Pilot,  Retired 

80 

Song 

8i 

Song 

82 

Song 

83 

Song 

84 

The  Second  Coming  of  Christ 

85 

Henderson,  Brooks 

In   Memory  of   the  Bandsmen,   S.S. 
"Titanic"  87 

Chanteur  90 

HoLDEN,  Raymond  Peckham 

The  New  Voyage  92 

XV 


Jones,  Herbert 

Wood  Smoke  94 

To  France  95 

Kaufman,  Isidor 

The  Dreamer  97 

Half-Lines  99 

Logan,  George  B.,  Jr. 

Dawn  106 

MacDonald,  Francis  Charles 

Youth  and  Age  (Princeton)  108 

Notice  no 

In  the  Old  Graveyard,  Princeton         113 

On  an  Uncertain  Day  in  Winter  114 

Brothers  116 

L  M.  120 

The  Old  Sail-Boat  123 

Advice  124 

The  Visitor  126 

On     the     Caribbean     Sea,  Before 

Kingston  128 

"There's  Rosemary"  134 

xvi 


Nicholas,  John  S. 

Hopes 

140 

O'Brien-Moore,  Ainsworth 

Iphigeneia 

144 

Polyphemus  and  Galataea 

146 

Pyne,  Percy  Rivington,  Jr. 

The  Diver 

149 

Youth's  Litany 

151 

Venezia 

153 

Shoemaker,  Samxtel  Moor,  Jr. 

Ma  Missis  an'  Ma  Boss 

154 

My  Mother 

159 

Stewart,  George  Rippey,  Jr. 

The  Knights  at  Rhodes  161 

Wallis,  Keene 

From  a  Freshman  Window — Spring 
Term  164 

The  Quarry  166 

Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen  168 

xvii 


Whipple,  T.  K. 

The  Puppet-Show 

173 

Epistle 

174 

Next  May 

177 

Wilson,  Edmund,  Jr. 

Princeton:  February,  191 6 

179 

Swift:  I.  Stella 

181 

2.  The  Dark  Hour 

182 

A  Rose  Found  in  a  Greek  Dictionary    183 
The  Prelude  184 


XVUl 


A   BOOK  OF 
PRINCETON  VERSE 
1916 


"Iota"-Napoli 

On  a  wind-whipped  cliff  by  the  Cornish  Sea, 

Where  far-bom  billows  run, 
Under  the  heather  a  sailor  sleeps — 

His  voyage  just  begun. 

No  stone  to  tell  of  his  youthful  years 
Did  his  ship-wrecked  comrades  raise; 

But  they  slung  a  white  buoy  over  his  grave 
Ere  they  went  their  unknown  ways. 

What  of  his  name  and  what  of  his  creed? 

They  matter  not — let  them  be ! 
The  wind  blows  over  his  resting  place. 
And  the  words  on  the  buoy  proclaim  his  race: 

"Iota"— NapoU. 

— Hamilton  Fish  Armstrong. 


Vale 

The  hermit- thrush  sits  lonely  on  the  limb; 

Deep-scarred,  the  hills 
Rise  through  an  opal  film,  smoke-blue  and  dim. 
That  folds  in  gloom  the  balsam-bordered  brim. 

The  quiet  stills. 
Lake  of  soft  clouds,  of  birches  white  and  slim. 

Within  thy  bosom  deep — 
Through  lessening  Indian-summer  days  of  gold, 
Through  southward  sweeping  storms  of  crack- 
ling cold. 
Through  droning  heat,  when  sunny  worlds  un- 
fold, 

Thy  stolen  treasure  keep. 

— Hamilton  Fish  Armstrong. 


Broadway  and  Tenth  Street 

Silent  he  walks,  and  bowed, 
One  of  an  alien  crowd 

In  the  thronging  lonely  street — 
Borne  on  the  human  tide 
That  floods  toward  the  drab  East  Side 

With  a  million  weary  feet. 

Then  to  his  peasant  brain, 
Knotted  and  dull  with  pain, 

Come  the  evening  bells  of  Grace; 
Up  to  the  stagnant  skies 
He  lifts  his  tired  eyes 

And  sees  another  place. 


Hills  of  gray  and  rose, 

From  whence  a  clear  stream  flows 

To  a  curving  summer  shore; 
Bells  that  call  the  morn 
To  the  land  where  he  was  born, 

Where  he  returns  no  more. 

— Hamilton  Fish  Armstrong. 


After  the  Play 

The  great  gold  room  is  heavy  with  the  scent 
Of  flowers  crushed  by  dancers,  and  smoke,  and 

wine ; 
The  Httle  tables  with  clustered  glasses  shine. 
And  always  through  the  buzzing  merriment 
And  through  the  thump  of  tired  musicians' 

play 
I  hear  the  drums  an  ocean's  breadth  away — 

Away — and  shaded  candles  hiss  and  dance 
Into  the  air — and  burst — my  pulses  quiver — 
I  smell  the  stinking  field,  and  'cross  the  river 
I  see  a  fringe  of  mud-swamped  guns  that  glance 
As  their  shells  come  whining  toward  the  bitter 

pit 
Of  ploughed-up  reddened  muck  and  powder- 
grit— 


Ploughed-up,  and  red  with  blood.     But  what 

is  blood 
To  placid  prattlers  in  another  world, 
Who  only  recall  the  showy  j3ags  unfurled 
And  waving  scarfs,  as  on  the  curb  they  stood 
Some  years  ago  and  watched  a  regiment  pass 
With  jaunty  step  and  cheerful  blare  of  brass? 

Yes,  what  is  blood  to  those  in  puppet-land? 
Hung  on  a  new  gilt  cord  they  jerk  and  swing 
Compliant  with  the  propitious  breeze  and  sing 
Self-satisfied   thoughtless  tunes,  nor  seek  the 

hand 
That  strings  them  there — discreet  torpidity. 
With  ears  that  hear  not,  eyes  that  will  not  see. 


There  is  a  sudden  stir,  and  waiters  run 
To  catch  a  man  whose  flabby  face  goes  gray. 
"He's  dead!"  the  whisper  comes.     The  musi- 
cians' play 
Stops.    A  few  white-Hpped  women  have  begun 
To  cry  a  Httle.    And  all  are  soon  outside. 
Yet  this  day  twenty  thousand  men  have  died. 

— Hamilton  Fish  Armstrong. 


Strange  Gods 

Strange  gods  in  ivory  palaces 
By  many  a  stagnant  rush-choked  stream, 
Where  foreign  fruits  and  flowers  teem 
On  countless  lattices — 

The  hollow  images  devised 
By  Isis'  priests  to  spy  and  share 
The  secret  thought  and  anguished  prayer 
Of  ignorance  terrorized — 


The  stony  gods  on  lacquered  throne, 
Mid  smouldering  sandal-wood  and  teak, 
Who  note  not  when  the  faithful  speak 
Nor  seem  to  hear  their  moan — 

Each  image,  every  painted  rod 
Or  stick  to  whom  in  faith  a  prayer 
Was  ever  uttered  anywhere — 
That  was  the  very  God. 

— Hamilton  Fish  Armstrong. 


Sea-Weed 

Cold  sea- weed,  folded  in  the  ways 
And  dusk  straits  which  the  sea-shell  paves, 
Driven  by  the  wind  and  wind-spent  waves 
Along  the  sand  in  branched  sprays, 

Far  from  the  sea's  most  quiet  graves 
And  the  cool  depths  whence  it  has  been 
Plucked  by  some  wild  sea-breathing  queen, 
Hunting  strange  rocks  and  buds  between. 

Dull-rose  and  brown  and  spectral  white, 
Hued  by  some  unknown  light  divine 
Of  gems  that  under  wan  caves  shine — 
Sea-hidden  pearl  and  almandite — 

Or  gleams  which  through  the  wild  sea-vine 
Creep  from  some  black  long-ruined  hold. 
Where  slaves'  bright  bones  and  heaped  red  gold 
Lie  on  the  sea's  wide  floor  unrolled. 

— John  Peale  Bishop. 


lO 


Perdlta 

Child  of  beauty  !    Child  of  gladness ! 

What  clear  light  illumes  thy  spirit, 
That  no  shade  of  mortal  sadness 

Ever  ventures  to  come  near  it? 
Gliding  through  this  sphere  of  sorrow, 
Like  a  bright  thought  of  the  morrow. 

In  thine  eyes'  enchanted  mazes 

Still  the  light  of  heaven  is  gleaming, 

And  the  soul  of  whoso  gazes 

In  those  deeps,  is  lost  in  dreaming 

Of  thy  former  bright  dominions. 

Lit  with  seraphs'  airy  pinions. 


II 


All  my  heart  is  stirred  within  me 
But  to  count  thy  beauty's  treasure, 

For  the  sight  thereof  doth  win  me 
To  a  rare  and  mystic  pleasure, 

Knowing  that  there  still  are  given 

Gleams,  though  rare,  of  God's  own  heaven. 

— John  Peak  Bishop. 


12 


The  Witch's  Daughter.    1692 

*'Is  it  a  scarecrow  hanging  high, 

Daughter,  my  daughter. 
That  flaps  so  black  against  the  sky?" 

"  Strange  corn  it  is  they'll  find  for  fare, 
The  straggling  crows  when  they  fly  by. 
For  it's  a  witch  they're  hanging  there." 
{The  sun  is  red  on  Salem  water.) 

"WTiat  had  she  done,  what  had  she  done, 

Daughter,  my  daughter, 
That  Satan  set  his  seal  upon?" 

"She  dug  beneath  the  churchyard  stones. 
She  gave  a  drink  to  the  parson's  son 
All  made  out  of  a  madman's  bones." 
{The  sun  is  dim  on  Salem  water.) 


13 


"And  do  you  know  the  name  of  her, 

Daughter,  my  daughter, 
That's  fallen  spoil  to  the  grave  digger?" 

"Ann  Pudeator  was  her  name 
That's  made  another  sorcerer 

For  Hell  to  add  to  this  night's  flame." 
{There  are  no  stars  an  Salem  water.) 

"Now  I  recall  her  peaked  chin. 
Daughter,  my  daughter, 
Her  cheeks  drawn  close  as  an  adder's  skin." 

"Remember  too  her  spiteful  tongue, 
How  quick  it  was  with  another's  sin; 
I  am  right  glad  that  she  was  hung." 

{The  clotids  hang  close  on  Salem  water.) 


14 


"Is  it  the  storm  begins  to  rouse, 
Daughter,  my  daughter, 
That  I  hear  a  noise  without  the  house?" 

"I  only  hear  the  sleepless  wind, 
That  comes  and  goes  among  the  boughs, 
Like  one  that  looks  and  cannot  find." 

{Wind  and  blown  waves  on  Salem  water.) 

"Is  it  the  rain  begins  to  beat, 
Daughter,  my  daughter. 
That  I  hear  a  sound  of  hard-set  feet?" 

"Only  the  leaden  beat  of  the  rain. 
Blown  on  the  roof  in  a  gusty  sheet, 
Blown  hard  against  the  window  pane." 
{Wind  and  black  rain  on  Salem  water.) 


IS 


"I  hear  a  hand  upon  the  latch, 
Daughter,  my  daughter, 
I  hear  a  hand  that  Hfts  the  latch !" 

''Perhaps  the  whining  dogs  without 
Stir  in  their  sleep  and  groan  and  scratch 
As  they  would  dig  a  dead  thing  out." 

{Wind  and  loud  waves  on  Salem  water.) 

"Who  are  these  men  with  Ian  thorn  light, 

Daughter,  my  daughter. 
That  look  at  me  as  a  hangman  might?" 

"Black  rain  and  wind  and  whining  bitch, — 
What  have  I  said  ?    Pray  God  with  might. 
They've  come  to  take  you  for  a  witch !" 
iy^recks  and  blown  spars  on  Salem  water.) 

— John  Peak  Bishop. 


i6 


'*  All  Lovely  Things  I  Love  '* 

All  lovely  things  I  love, 

Whether  of  sky  or  sea; 
Earth  and  the  fruit  thereof, 

And  the  starry  company 
That  wander  through  heaven  above, 

Singing  unceasingly. 

I  love  all  sweet- voiced  things: 

The  coil  of  falling  streams, 
The  honeyed  murmurings 

Of  bees  in  their  noontide  dreams. 
And  the  brush  of  Night's  great  wings, 

That  a  sweeter  silence  seems. 


17 


I  love  all  silent  thought 

Prisoned  in  cadenced  sound; 
And  many  a  jewel  brought 

From  hearted  caves  profound; 
And  yet  in  all  I've  sought 

Something  I  have  not  found. 

— John  Peale  Bishop. 


i8 


Mushrooms 

Cold  toadstools  under  moist  moons  growing 
Push  up  between  rain-rusted  leaves 
And  rank  wet  growths  which  August  eves 

Vex,  when  dull  winds  blowing 

Bring  clouds  of  thin  vibrating  wings, 

In  damp  dusk  woods  where  morning  clings 

After  the  morning,  and  the  gray  even 

Flits  like  a  moth  under  no  starlit  heaven. 

Dead-flesh-like   where    the    quick   flesh   holds 
them. 
With  a  thick  odor  of  rich  mold. 
As  when  things  oversweet  grow  old 

And  slow  decay  enfolds  them; 
Above  as  a  snake's  summer  skin 
Smooth,  but  below  void  veins  begin 

To  vex  the  bloodless  frozen  flesh 

With  labyrinthine  lines  and  glutted  mesh. 


19 


White  with  a  cold  unhealthy  whiteness, 

Black  with  the  blackness  of  bruised  blood, 

Rose-purple,  like  a  feverish  bud 
Filled  with  unhappy  brightness, 

Where  the  sharp  winds  bite  hard  like  flame; 

They  rise  as  though  some  poisonous  name 
By  demons  spoken  under  earth 
Had  set  them  there  with  smiles  of  sterile  mirth. 

— John  Peale  Bishop. 


20 


To  Francis  Thompson 

What  shall  be  said  of  thee  ?    What  of  thy  song  ? 
A  wild  star  falling  in  a  shower  of  light, 
A   white   wave   smitten   by   the   sea-wind's 
might, 
Sobbing  against  the  cliff's  great  heart  its  wrong  ? 
Cast  from  that  sphere  to  which  thou  didst  be- 
long, 
Child  of  the  flame-haired  Sun,  nurtured  by 

Night- 
Remembering  not,  nor  yet  forgetful  quite — 
An  exile's  was  thy  Ufe,  a  god's  thy  song ! 


21 


Time-bowed,  who  now  art  fled  too  far  for  Time, 

What  of  thy  heart  that  is  no  more  a  lute 

That  Grief  may  touch,  nor  Anguish  strike 

again? 

And  oh,  thy  lips,  thy  lips,  are  they,  too,  mute. 

Seeing  thy  Muse  was  Grief  and  all  thy  rhyme, 

Washed  on  these  shores  by  endless  seas  of 

pain? 

— John  Peale  Bishop. 


22 


Ganymede 

Filled  full  of  madness,  flushed  and  stained  with 
crimson, 
Round  the  courts  of  heaven  goes  a  fair,  swift 
throng, 
Hair  all  dishevelled,   crowned  with  bay  and 
rose-leaves. 
Filling  all   the  heavens  with  a  wild  sweet 
song. 

Loud  shouts  and   laughter  shake   the  gilded 
roof-trees, 
Love  entreats  a  chorus  and  the  gold  roof 
rings; 
Far  through  the  tumult  sounds  the  plaint  of 
viols, 
Swift-kissing  cymbals  and  faint  lute-strings. 


23 


Dark-haired  and  dark-eyed,  Bacchus  young 
and  gracious, 

Chapleted  with  violets  and  green  wild  vine, 
One  arm  uplifted,  tilts  his  glowing  chalice, 

Pouring  on  the  pavement  the  spiced  red  wine. 

Earth-born,  I  sicken  here  amid  the  wine-jars. 

Carved  of  cunning  ivory  with  pale  gold  laid; 
Now  swells  the  springtide  through  the  silent 
greenwood, 
Now  the  grasses  brighten  in  the  sun-tinct 
glade. 


24 


Three    miles   from    Troy    town   lies   a   secret 
meadow 
Girt  with  green  recesses  which  the  sun  scarce 
cleaves; 
Cool-dewed  at  dawn,  and  at  noon  made  sweet 
with  grasses, 
Dusky-petalled  violets,  and  last  year's  leaves. 

Dark-banded,  girt  with  deep  serene  recesses, 
Where  the  noon  scarce  wakens  the  night- 
drowsed  bee; 
Dusk-bound,  but  oh,  the  endless  sunny  hol- 
lows, 
Clothed  with  waving  shadow  when  the  wind 
nms  free. 


25 


Curled  golden  waters  ripple  in  the  sun  there, 
When  the  swallow  skims  through  the  sword- 
edged  reeds, 
White-bellied,  bright-winged,  full  of  summer's 
music, 
Shedding    starry    spray    through    the    gray 
marsh  reeds. 

Clean-limbed  and  sun-hued,  the  happy  brave 
companions 
Poise  in  naked  beauty  on  the  stream's  soft 
rims. 
Arms  strained  behind  them,   till  the  sudden 
signal 
Ploughs  the  shining  waters  with  their  brown, 
bright  limbs. 


26 


There,  too,  they  wade  in  among  the  circling 
shallows. 
Dip  their  tangled  fish-nets  in  the  cool  brown 
stream. 
One  edge  upholden,  one  beneath  the  surface 
Gliding   where   the   crimson   and  steel  fins 
gleam. 

Dew-sandalled,  fleet-foot,  racing  through  the 
hollows 
Waking  hilly  echoes  with  a  boy's  light  cries; 
Or  haply  day-long  watching  white  and  silver 
Rise  in  cloudy  headlands  in  the  wide  blue 
skies. 


27 


Long  lasts  the  day  there,  in  the  happy  valley, 
Then   the   journey   homeward    to   the   safe 
warm  town; 
Full-orbed  the  moon  hangs  white  above  the 
uplands, 
Darker  grow  the  thickets  as  the  road  winds 
down. 

Down  dusky  pathways,  through  the  dewy  or- 
chard, 
Clothed  with  honied  blossom  where  the  gray 
moth  sips, 
Glad,  sad,  and  weary,  you  gain  the  trellised 
doorway. 
Where  through  muffling  grape-vine  a  warm 
light  slips. 


28 


Black  oaken  settles  stand  before  the  fireplace, 

Smoky,  stained  by  winter  in  the  good  years 

dead; 

Red  gleams  the  firelight  on  the  lustrous  copper; 

Softly  glow  the  tables  with  the  day's  feast 

spread. 

Dew-sweet   the   honey,    sweet   the   crumbling 
wheat-cakes, 
Foaming  white  the  new  milk  in  brown  clay 
jars; 
Last  the  tired  pallet  in  the  fragrant  bedroom 
Open  to  the  night-wind  and  the  large  white 
stars. 


29 


All  night  you  hear  the  sound  of  distant  waters 
Chafing  on  the  pebbles  in  the  sand-strewn 
caves, 
Far-off  you  hear  them  crumbling  down  the  sea- 
cliff, 
Catch,  too,  the  savor  of  the  salt  sharp  waves. 

Fair  dreams,  but  vain.  Ah,  hark,  again  the  viols 
Rise  above  the  laughter  and  the  wine-mad 
fray. 
Jove  leans  and  drains  his  revel-stained  wine- 
cup, 
Waves  me  to  his  side,  and  I  dare  not  stay. 

— John  Peale  BisJwp. 


30 


Old  Pines 


Permanent  and  ancient  pines  along  the  sky 
Silently  stand  with  rugged  arms  outspread; 
Serene  gray  ghosts,  defiant  and  alone, 
Grim  sentinels  among  the  lost  hill  roads. 
They  whisper  in  the  autumn  wind,  as  old  men 
Murmur  the  glory  of  departed  comrades, 
Then  turn  weak  hmbs  to  fight  the  white-robed 

storms 
That  gallop  wildly  over  barren  hills. 


31 


II 


Old  trees,  you  who  whisper  in  the  twilight, 
Soughing  softly  your  secret  of  assurance, 
Grant  me,  pray,  a  moment  of  clear  vision 
To  feel  the  power  of  ancient  pines  in  winter ! 
A  babel  of  myriad  needles  in  the  wind — 
A  rush  of  voices  calling  out  to  Pan — 
An  odorous  gale  wings  swiftly  down  the  glen; 
Then  as  before,  silent,  waiting  sentinels. 

— Henry  Chapin. 


32 


The  Thief 

I  did  not — 

No,  I  say  I  did  not. 

Don't  look  at  me  and  say  I  lie. 

You've  tracked  and  followed  me  from  day  to 

day; 
I've  seen  your  sneaking  face  among  the  crowds. 
And  now  you've  got  me — 
Yes,  I  deny  I  took  it — 
You've  seen  the  books? 
And  they  betray  my  guilt? 
You  lie ! 

Damn  you,  I  say  you  lie ! 
I  did  not  take  the  money — 
You  will  arrest  me? 
There,  take  that ! 


33 


Good  God,  he's  dead. 
What  shaU  I  do? 
Where  shall  I  hide? 
Oh,  Christ— To  kill  him  ! 
I  never  meant — 
But  I  must  run. 

And  run,  and  run,  and  run  forever- 
Out  of  my  way ! 
Get  out ! 

I've  done  no  wrong. 
I've  done  no  wrong ! 
Fve  done  no  wrong  I 
Let  go— 

I  did  not  kill  him — 
It  was  in  self-defense — 
He  said  I  lied — 
I  tell  you  let  me  go — 


34 


Good  God — My  Mother — 

How  came  she  here? 

She  must  not  see  me — 

Now  loose  me — ^Lift  your  hand — I  .  .  . 

Ah,  Mother,  was  it  you 

Who  woke  me  with  a  kiss? 

I  tremble  ?    I  am  pale  ? 

Why— Why— Yes,  I— 

I  had  a  dream — Ugh — 

No,  just  a  dream. 

May  I  have  breakfast  soon? 

I  want  to  reach  the  bank  a  little  early. 

You'll  call  me  when  it's  ready?  .  .  . 

That  money  must  go  back  to-day. 

— Sayers  Coe. 


35 


The  Bubble-Blower 

Men  called  him  Bubble-Blower,  man-grown 
child ; 

"He  chases  butterflies,"  they  cried,  "all  day, 
Or  stains  his  fingers  with  the  rose  grown  wild — 

Ah  no,  he  never  will  put  dreams  away." 

"Some  mournful- woman,"  whispered  knowing 
ones, 

"Ensnared  him  as  a  child  and  hazed  his  eyes 
Within  some  April  twilight;  so  he  runs 

And  chases  down  the  wind  gay  butterflies." 

"Forsooth,"  they  chorused,  puck'ring  eye-brows 
aU, 

"He  sends  no  argosies  across  the  seas; 
He  tends  his  hollyhocks  beside  the  wall. 

Nor  cares  for  stiff-gold  stuffs  or  fragrant  teas." 


36 


But  still  the  Bubble-Blower  kept  his  creed; 
Nay  more,  within  his  heart  he  grieved  for 
these, 
The  Hurry-Folk  who  felt  the  goad  of  Greed, 
Who  crushed  Life's  flowers  with  their  labor- 
ing knees. 

The    earth-bent    ploughman    drove    his    soil- 
bright  share 
Straight  through  the  starry  bluets  on  the  sod, 
Nor  heeded  how  by  apple-trees  the  air 
Was  scented  as  by  prayers  breathed  up  to 
God. 

The   shag-browed   fishers   vexed   the   flooding 
tide; 
Year  in,  year  out,  they  cast  their  nets;  their 
plea, 
Enough  to  live  on;  never  did  they  bide 
To  hear  the  calm,  deep  music  of  the  sea. 


37 


With  com  there  waved  a  thousand  valleys  wide ; 

A   thousand    threshing-floors   with   Autumn 
yields 
Groaned  heavily ;  and  still  the  landlords  sighed — 

"Alas!  if  only  we  had  broader  fields." 

But  while  in  moms  and  evenings  ebbed  the 
tide 
Of  years  fore'er,  while  dew-drops  still  did 
shine, 
The  Bubble-Blower's  heart  in  sorrow  cried 
To  see  the  Hurry-Folk  pour  out  Life's  wine: 

"For  them  the  caravans  of  Sachem  Bey 
Have  passed  for  aye  across  the  starlit  sands, 

To  bring  no  more  from  Bagdad  or  Cathay 
The  moon-spun,  lamplight  wares  of  story- 
lands. 


38 


"No  dying  Roland  winds  his  sunset  hom 
High  in  some  glen  of  gloomy  Moor-swarmed 
Spain ; 

No  Robin  bends  his  farewell  bow  forlorn; 
No  Percivale  may  seek  the  Grail  again. 

"For  them  a  story  is  a  story — lo, 

The  Hurry-Folk  forget  Youth's  minstrelsy; 
Their   gold-dulled   eyes   can   never   catch   the 
glow 

Soft-shining  from  nymph-haunted  Arcady. 

"No   time   to  walk   the   gardens   sweet  with 
dreams 
Where  strength  and  peace  abide — ah,  God 
forgive ! 
They  muse  no  more  beside  the  quiet  streams; 
In  winning  livelihood  they  cease  to  live. 


39 


^'They  lift  not  up   their  hearts  to  bannered 
morn, 
They  bow  not  down  their  heads  at  prayerful 
eve; 
Their  souls  are  starved  and  sadly  crushed  and 
torn; 
For  Hurry-Folk  our  God  must  sorely  grieve." 

As  often  when  he  walked  the  dewy  lanes 
What  time  the  crickets  said  their  evening 
prayers, 
Through  open  lattices  he  glimpsed  the  fanes 
Where    Hurry-People    sought    retreat   from 
cares. 


40 


And    there    shone    baleful    lights    within    the 
rooms; 
Strange  incense  writhed  before  strange  gods, 
perchance, 
Adown   the   red-plashed   stairs,    through   cur- 
tained glooms, 
Came   broken   echoes   of   some   maddening 
dance. 

ITie  sounds  of  revels  died,  wild  music  stole 
With  throbbing  plaint;  like  blooms  of  tropic 
day 
It  grew  upon  the  listener  till  his  soul 
With  sweetness  choked  and  purpose  slipped 
away. 


41 


There,   too,   was  laughter  gay,  but  mocking; 
song — 
But  such  as  beats  beneath  a  jungle  sky 
Where    man    forgets    and    crawls    the    mould 
along, 
With  rank-sweet  flowers  and  with  beasts  to 
die. 

And  there  were  Superstitions,  warped  Creeds, 
Like   storied   spectres   groping   through   the 
years 
And  gloating  o'er  their  sunless  treasures  down — 
Down  in  the  sea  where  daylight  ne'er  ap- 
pears. 


42 


And  there  were  Fears  that  warmed  their  pal- 
sied shins 
Before    the    household    hearth;     ill-omened 
Doubt 
That  darkened  panes;   and,  stroking  their  sad 
chins, 
Despairs  that  blew  the  good-wife's  candle 
out. 

But  ever  as  he  wondered  came  the  breeze 
And  swept  the  tell-tale  shutters  to,  and  still 

The  harpist  Night  was  playing  in  the  trees, 
The  calm,  high  stars  went  marching  o'er  the 
hiU. 


43 


And  on  the  fretted  lake  the  moonbeams  clear 
Still  came  and  went  the  while  they  joyed  to 
dance; 

Within  the  drowsy  arbours  he  could  hear 
The  sighing  lover-winds  in  Night's  romance. 

"Night  and  the  moonlight !    Pan  is  awake, 

He  is  tuning  his  pipes  by  the  river; 
Through  the  dim  glades  the  Huntress  has  shot 

The  silvery  shafts  from  her  quiver. 
At  the  wave  of  Night's  sceptre  where  the  red 

poppies  droop, 
See,  from  the  woodland  the  dreams  shyly  troop. 
Old  legends  live,  the  hour  has  come. 

The  ships  of  the  clouds,  their  sails  flapping. 
Strain  to  be  off  on  the  moon-dusky  waves 

On  the  shores  of  far  fairyland  lapping." 


44 


So  he  whom  men  called  Bubble-Blower  knew 
Nor  curse  of  worry  nor  the  blight  of  fears; 

And  whether  skies  were  gray  or  sunny  blue, 
He  kept  these  simple  treasures  through  the 
years: 

An  evening  lamp  kept  trimmed  with  tender 
care, 

A  modest  hearth  to  be  sweet  Memory's  fane, 
A  window  to  admit  the  spring-warmed  air 

And  fragrance  of  the  pine-woods  after  rain; 

A  wife  whom  he  could  love  with  all  his  soul. 
Shy  children  smiling  at  their  quiet  play. 

So  he,  the  Master-Poet,  reached  his  goal 
And  found  at  last  the  golden  perfect  day. 


45 


Perchance,    we,    too,    may    care    to    hear   his 
song — 

That  song  he  sang  within  the  long  ago; 
God  grant  that,  hearing,  we  may  ever  long 

To  live  while  in  our  hearts  Life's  roses  blow: 

"Under  the  boughs  when  the  waking  world 

Sings  in  the  flutes  of  birds, 
I  will  love  and  live  with  the  flaming  dew 

And  the  fleecy  cloudland  herds. 
And  Life  shall  be  my  heart's  delight 

While  Youth  and  Morning  are; 
And  when,  with  the  day,  Life's  sunshine 
fades, 

I  shall  sleep  with  the  evening  star." 

— Robert  P.  Coffin. 


46 


The  Serpent  of  the  Sea 

There  is  a  serpent  hiding  in  the  sea, 

Just  as  the  musty  old-time  books  declare, 

And  seamen  half-admit  it,  eyes  askance, 
As  if  they  could  tell  more,  if  they  should  dare. 

For  once  far  down  the  western  sea  at  dusk 
I  saw  his  head  all  crested  like  a  king's, 

With  dim,  pure  sunset  gold  and  sapphire  stars — 
And  felt  the  lure  of  drowsy  ocean-things. 


47 


And  once  I  heard  a  rustling  in  the  night, 

When  all  the  stars  lay  still  upon  the  deep, 
And  thought  of  shadow-shapes  that  creep  and 
stir 
The  sickly  deep-sea  flowers — and  could  not 
sleep. 

And  once,  I  think,  I  saw  it  move  the  kelp, 
Hard  by  old  Peter's  house  upon  the  shore; 

That  evening  people  found  his  empty  boat, 
But  people  saw  the  fisherman  no  more. 

— Robert  P.  Coffin. 


48 


Glauce 

Singing  lord  of  the  lyre,  Apollo, 
Come  with  the  western  breeze  of  dawn 
To  the  Laurean  shade,  where  huntsmen  follow 
The  vexed  boar  and  the  spotted  fawn. 
Not  in  the  flame  of  the  bended  bow — 
The  splendor  of  gold  that  gleams  afar — 
Nor  with  Cretan  quiver  and  darts  aglow 
With  the  molten  heat  of  the  noon-day  star; 
But  wreathed,  gracing  the  robe  discreet, 
In  the  lustred  white  of  the  clouds  of  heaven, 
O  come.  Divine,  while  the  chorded  seven 
Sound  to  the  rhythm  of  dancing  feet. 

— Ah,  call  him  not;  ah,  Glauce,  call  him  not: 
Sad,  lonely  tears  shall  mark  thy  pain. 
Sad  prayer  and  pleading  prove  in  vain. 
Sad,  endless  sighs  shall  be  thy  lot ! 


49 


Far  from  the  grove  and  the  lyric  band, 
Alone  in  a  deep  sea-cavern  lying, 
I  hear  the  throb  of  the  Sunian  strand. 
The  choral  song  and  the  voice  replying. 
Bright  in  the  moving  emerald  waters, 
Throned  on  a  coral  rose-inflamed, 
Tethys'  fairest  of  maiden  daughters, 
(}ueen  of  the  Nereids  am  I  famed. 
Lo,  I  have  called,  and  the  restless  wave 
Leaps  to  the  pulse  of  the  breathed  flute; 
Thou  hast  heard,  and  come  at  my  eager  suit 
To  summon  me  forth,  and  sing,  and  save. 

— Ah,  call  him  not;  ah,  Glauce,  call  him  not: 
Sad,  lonely  tears  shall  mark  thy  pain, 
Sad  prayer  and  pleading  prove  in  vain. 
Sad,  endless  sighs  shall  be  thy  lot. 


50 


The  waning  stars  are  quenched  in  light, 

And  westward  now  the  wandering  moon, 

Pale  phantom  of  the  vanished  night, 

Attends  the  chariot  of  noon. 

All  yesterday  till  silent  eve; 

From  eve  till  break  of  saffron  mom, 

I  watched,  alas,  a  maid  forlorn. 

And  cheered  a  heart  that  could  but  grieve. 

Still  murmuring  I  hear  afar 

Faint  echoes  of  full-throated  song — 

Ah  me,  how  thick  the  branches  are, 

The  lonely  path,  how  long ! 

— Philip  L.  Coffin. 


51 


The  Reflection 

In  the  forest  a  clear  pool  shines  in  a  rock  basin. 

When  I  see  my  reflection  on  its  surface 

I  cannot  see  the  goldfish  and  water-ferns  in  the 
depths. 

When  my  reflection  vanishes 

I  see  the  glint  of  the  fish  and  the  waving  water- 
ferns. 

Thus  man  seeking  truth. 

— William  Brewer  Connett. 


52 


Newspaper  Values  and  the  Cub 

With  squeaking  brakes  the  ambulance 
stopped  at  the  door. 

OrderHes  carried  the  stretcher  into  the  white- 
tiled  room. 

They  drew  the  rough  blanket  from  the  white 
face 

And  we  saw  that  he  was  scarcely  more  than  a 
boy. 

With  scissors  they  snipped  away  the  clothes 

From  the  legs,  mangled,  hanging  by  shreds. 

An  engine  had  struck  him  as  he  was  picking 
coals 

Along  the  tracks,  putting  them  into  a  burlap 
sack. 

Swiftly  and  quietly  the  white-suited  doctors 
worked. 

Then  the  priest  came — the  surgeons  withdrew. 

With  bent  heads  we  stood 


53 


Hearing  the  whispered  eternal  comfort  behind 

the  white  curtains  strung  on  wires. 
The  lad  spoke  only  with  his  wide-open  eyes. 
Fifteen  minutes  later  he  was  dead. 

Over  the  telephone  the  cub  reporter,  breath- 
lessly speaking, 
Told  the  story  to  the  patient  re-write  man  in 
the  ofhce. 

That  evening  in  the  newspaper  in  jet  black 
headlines : 
"Society  woman  in  auto  crash  !" 
She  had  escaped  with  a  scratch  on  the  cheek. 

In  an  obscure  corner  a  paragraph  of  the  lad's 
death. 
The  cub  was  puzzled. 

— William  Brewer  Connrtf. 


54 


One  Side  of  the  Medal 

High  above  the  throng  in  the  street 
Rose  the  steel  skeleton  painted  red; 
Above  the  surrounding  masonry  and  stone  it 

rose  against  the  pale  shining  sky. 
A    donkey-engine    rattled    and    hissed    white 

steam ; 
Above  the  confused  murmur  of  traffic 
Came    the   brief    staccato    clatter   of   a    trip- 
hammer. 


55 


Hundreds  of  feet  in  the  air  swung  a  steel  beam 

To  which  clung  a  man — 

He  grasped  the  knotted  chain, 

Gritting  his  teeth  as  he  firmly  kept 

A  grip  on  his  imagination. 

In  a  flash  the  street  with  its  tiny  black  lines 

Might  be  obUterated  and  smothered  in  infinite 
distance, — 

This  he  knew — 

And  the  muscles  hardened  in  his  white  grease- 
smudged  arm. 

His  eyes  were  quiet. 


S6 


During  the  lunch  hour  he  went  among  the 

men 
Who  lounged  on  the  loose  planks, 
Drinking  beer  from  shiny  tin  pails. 
He  talked  to  them  of  democracy  and  wages, 
Of  capital  and  labor. 

One  day  I  spoke  of  him  to  the  head  of  the  con- 
struction company, 
A  hard- thinking,  aggressive  man. 
He  answered  me  across  his  mahogany  desk: 
"Yes,  I  know  the  man; 
He's  a  fourteen-karat  faker." 

— William  Brewer  Connett. 


57 


The  Ascent 

As  I  begin  to  see  beyond  thy  rhyme, 

And  learn  to  place  each  pleasing  sound  aright, 
And  view  the  steps  by  which  thy  verses  climb 
Through  strength  to  beauty,  and  on  from 
height  to  height; 
Then  I  begin  to  feel  that  eagle's  lure, 

WTiich  turns  his  gaze  toward  a  challenging 
sun, 
To  leave  behind  the  dull  and  level  moor 
For  those  high  crags  where  glorious  colors 
run. 


58 


So  would  I  know  with  thee  that  steep  ascent, 
That  difificult  way  to  prospects  yet  unknown, 

The  winding  paths,  the  chasms  deeply  rent, 
The   whispering   pines   by   winds   of   poesy 
blown. 

And  face  that  sun  of  song  whose  radiance  flows 
In  sky-born  colors  through  this  earth's  dark 

prose. 

— James  Creese. 


59 


A  Dawn  in  Spring 

Awake !    Awake !    from  out  the  night  mount 
higher 
And  higher  on  prancing  feet  bright  Phoebus' 

steeds. 
The  mist-maids  flee,  and  shrill  and  clear  the 
reeds 
Of  Pan  pipe  out  and  call  the  fairy  choir 
That  leaped,  and  trilled,  and  danced  in  chaste 
desire. 
Kindled  beneath  Diana's  maiden  reign, 
But  now  desert  their  ghstening  webs,  nor 
deign 
To  sport  their  grace  before  a  w^anton  fire. 


60 


The  fairy-folk  now  flee  before  the  dawn, 
While  feathered  sprites  their  warbled  carol 
sing, 
And  warily  beside  the  lick  the  fawn 
Poises  to  hark.    Now  through  all  life  there 
thrills 
A  lilting  note;  and  soft,  caressing  Spring 
Entices  man  to  golden-fringed  hills ! 

— James  Creese. 


6i 


A  Ballad  of  Sir  Richard  Steele 

"I  have  been  told,"  writes  a  friend  of  "Dick." 
Steele,  "that  he  retained  his  cheerful  sweetness  to  the 
last;  and  that  he  would  often  be  carried  out  in  a  sum- 
mer's evening,  when  the  country  lads  and  lasses  were 
assembled  at  their  rural  sports,  and,  with  his  pencil, 
give  an  order  on  his  agent  for  a  new  gown  for  the  best 
dancer." — Text  Book. 

"A  ring  !    A  ring !   come,  dance,  my  lad ! 

A  ring !  ay,  come,  be  gay, 
And  for  Sir  Richard's  sake  be  glad 

With  merry  songs  and  play  ! 
Come,  lightly  trip  it  on  the  green. 

For  straight  from  London  town 
Shall  come  a  prize  for  the  dancers'  queen, — 

Sir  Richard  grants  a  gown !" 


62 


And  so  we  cried,  and  winsome  girls 

Danced  gaily  for  the  prize.  .  .  . 
Their  points,  their  courtesies,  and  whirls 

Are  done.     Each  evening  dies 
In  silent  chill.     The  lads  are  mute, 

And  empty  now  the  lawn. 
We  can  not  tune  the  joyous  lute. 

For  good  Sir  Richard's  gone. 

— James  Creese, 


63 


A  Japanese  Serenade 

The  gentle  tinkle  of  my  samisen 

Sounds  'neath  thy  lattice,  Love. 
The  moonlight  on  the  sea  doth  call  again 

To  thee.     Look  from  above ! 
Beneath  the  bamboo  where  the  nightingale 

Sings  to  you  silver  fire, 
I  rival  him, — for  in  his  liquid  tale 

Thrills  no  such  sweet  desire. 
While  lotus-petals  lie 
Beneath  the  jewelled  sky, 

And  adown  the  darkness  the  white  swans  cry. 


64 


From  temples  hidden  in  the  mountain  glen, 

I  hear  the  tolHng  gong, 
That  throbs  across  the  deep  and  haunted  fen, 

And  chills  my  pleading  song. 
But,  Love,  come  forth, — the  ripples  dance  for 
thee 
Down  on  the  sedgy  strand. 
The  fireflies  dancing  rim  the  moonless  sea 
And  seaweed-scattered  strand. 
While  lotus-petals  lie 
Under  the  jewelled  sky, 
And  adown  the  darkness  the  white  swans  cry. 

— Pierson  Curtis. 


6s 


The  Wife  of  Athemis 

"  0  warrior-woman,  art  thou  tender  now  ? 

Shining  upon  his  um  I  saw  thy  tear." 

"  Shall  I  not  weep  for  him  who  knew  not  how  ?  " 

"Black  was  his  anger;  naught  did  he  revere; 
Rudely  he  dealt  with  men,  and  rudely  spoke." 
"Rude  with  me  also — therefore  the  more  dear." 

"I  would  foreswear  the  market's  wanton  joke 
To  dwell  at  home  with  thee  in  tenderness, 
And  teach  thee  Aphrodite  to  invoke." 

"Ah,  youth,  one  time  I  cherished  love's  caress. 
But  he  who  mocked,  thou  say'st,  at  gods  and 

fate. 
Taught  me  to  prize  it  more  and  seek  it  less." 


66 


"His  was  the  clenched  fist  shaken  in  dark  hate, 
The  unshamed  brow — "     "Truth   makes  its 

own  amend; 
Him   thou  would'st  fain  decry   thou   makest 

great." 

"Forget,  forget;  too  many  tears  offend. 
Each  pleasant  hour  is  numbered  here  above." 
"Aye,  truly.     So  we  follow  each  his  end: 
And  I  a  ruthlessness  transcending  love." 

W.  Stanley  Dell. 


67 


Tavern  Song 

Good  friends,  true  friends, 

Come  what  will, 
Raining  or  shining. 

True  friends  still. 

Off  on  our  travels. 

Go  anywhere, 
We'll  find  real  friends. 

True  friends  rare. 

So  now  at  the  tavern, 

While  we  may, 
We'll  drink  together. 

Good  friends  and  gay. 


68 


Red  wine,  strong  wine, 

Rare  wine  and  old ! 
Look  at  that  miser, 

Purse  full  of  gold; 

What  good  is  gold,  pray, 

No  friends  to  share  it? 
Come,  jolly  brothers, 

Let's  down  with  the  claret. 

Good  friends,  true  friends, 

Come  what  will, 
Good  luck  or  bad  luck, 

True  friends  still. 

— Harrington  Green. 


69 


King  Solomon 

Fee,  fie,  foh,  fum, 
A  thousand  wives  has  Solomon; 
Some  are  white  as  ivory 
And  others  black  as  ebony. 

Daily  see  the  merchants  come 
Bearing  wives  to  Solomon, 
More  and  more, — the  Hebrews  say 
He  weds  a  new  one  every  day. 

He  loves  his  spouses  ever>^  one, 
And  they  all  love  King  Solomon; 
His  gifts  to  them  are  priceless  things, 
Silks  and  pearls  and  golden  rings. 


70 


The  Queen  of  Sheba  came  from  far 

To  be  his  royal  paramour, 

She  whipped  her  slaves  and  urged  them  on, 

And  all  for  love  of  Solomon. 

When  Solomon  sits  down  to  dine, 
He  drinks  a  hundred  cups  of  wine; 
When  Solomon  goes  up  to  bed, 
Slaves  with  torches  march  ahead: 
In  all  the  world  beneath  the  sun, 
There  is  no  king  like  Solomon. 

— Harrington  Green. 


71 


Wisdom 

Once  the  wise  men,  all  unwise, 
Built  a  temple  to  the  skies. 
Built  of  marble  and  of  gold,— 
Cheerless  was  the  place  and  cold; 
Through  its  aisles  the  whole  day  long 
Never  rang  the  careless  song. 
Never  came  a  jovial  face, 
Laughter  never  shook  the  place. 

Did  they  hope  that  she  would  come, 
There  to  dwell  and  make  her  home, 
Goddess  of  their  temple  tall? 
Oh,  the  folly  of  it  aU ! 
Wisdom  shuns  all  sombre  places, 
Solemn  talk  and  joyless  faces; 
But  she  loves  the  dance  and  song. 
Mirth  and  laughter  all  day  long. 


72 


Royally  in  a  purple  gown, 
On  her  head  a  golden  crown, 
Learning  sits,  that  temple's  queen, 
On  the  highest  throne  therein. 
And  the  wise  men,  all  unwise, 
Think  that  such  is  Wisdom's  guise; 
Blind,  deceived,  their  praise  and  prayer 
To  a  goddess  false  they  bear. 

We  within  the  tavern  know 
(More  than  lesser  mortals  know) 
The  true  worth  of  things  below, 
All  the  bitterness  of  strife, 
All  the  folly  of  man's  life. 
So  from  dawn  to  evening 
Deep  we  diink  and  loud  we  sing; 
What  a  merry  life  lead  we ! 
Wisdom  loves  our  company ! 


73 


Here  the  goddess  reigns  divine, 
Throned  upon  a  cask  of  wine, 
Queen  she  is  the  whole  day  long, 
Queen  of  all  our  feast  and  song. 
Just  across  the  roadway  there 
Stands  the  temple  cold  and  bare. 
— See  the  smile  light  up  her  eyes, 
As  through  the  trellised  vines  she  spies 
Solemn  wise  men,  aU  unwise. 

— Harrington  Green. 


74 


The  Goddess  of  Chance 

It  was  before  the  birth  of  Time: 

Tyche  was  a  little  child, 
When  walking  into  space  one  day, 

A  careless  hour  she  beguiled. 

Happy  with  her  new-found  toys, 
Among  the  atoms  Tyche  played, 

Between  her  fingers  let  them  fall, 
And  laughed  at  each  new  star  she  made. 

She  moulded  stars  and  moons  and  suns. 
And  set  them  spinning  on  their  way; 

Never  in  her  life,  she  thought. 

Had  she  so  much  enjoyed  her  play. 


75 


Sometimes  a  star  would  lose  its  path, 

And  get  entangled  in  her  hair, 
And  she  would  chide  it  childishly, 

But  little  did  she  truly  care. 

Swiftly  then  she  made  the  world, 
Portioned  out  the  land  and  sea. 

Peopled  it  with  living  things. 
And  looked  at  it  admiringly. 

Tyche  still  is  but  a  child. 

Though  older  than  the  oldest  years; 
Careless,  heedless,  on  she  trips. 

And  not  a  single  prayer  she  hears. 

Her  childish  whims  are  Fate's  decrees, 
For  all  things  bow  to  her  control; 

She  points  the  hand  of  every  god. 
And  tells  the  dice  how  they  must  roll. 

— Harrington  Green. 


76 


Aristophanes 

In  sword  and  spear  ye  trust 
On  the  red  battle-field, 
The  foeman  meets  each  thrust 
And  smiles  behind  his  shield. 

My  weapons  are  but  words, 
No  shield  can  turn  such  darts, 
More  sure,  more  sharp  than  swords. 
They  pierce  my  victims'  hearts ! 

— Harrington  Green. 


77 


Dreams 

How  rare  was  that  great  tapestry  of  Tyre, 
Its  figures  wrought  with  gold  and  purple  braid  ! 
That  even  Time,  consigning  it  to  fire. 
Regretfully  beheld  its  beauty  fade. 

And  so  our  dream,  the  dream  that  we  two  wove, 
Fair  as  the  sunset  mirrored  in  the  deeps, 
Now  lies  destroyed  before  the  feet  of  Love, 
Who  looks  at  it  with  wistful  eyes  and  weeps. 

— Harrington  Green. 


78 


To  Francois  Villon 

(Who  expected  at  one  time  to 
hang  with  five  other  thieves) 

Six  thieves  strung  on  a  gallows  tree, 

Six  dead  men  swinging  merrily, 

Oh,  that  were  a  goodly  sight  to  see ! 

Their  lifeless  frames  will  hang  right  well, 

Their  bodies  here,  their  souls  in  hell; 

This  world  no  longer  shall  they  vex, 

When  the  noose  tightens  about  their  necks. 

Six  thieves  shall  swing  through  rain  and  sun, 

Their  cursings  and  their  thievings  done. 

And  the  arch-villain  of  them  all 

Shall  with  them  hang  till  he  rot  and  fall, 

The  poet-thief  will  not  thieve  long. 

Nor  sing, — the  rope  can  choke  all  song 

Except  those  weird,  unearthly  tones 

The  wind  shall  sing  through  his  dry  bones. 

O  sLx  thieves  strung  on  a  gallows  tree. 

Six  dead  men  swinging  merrily. 

Oh,  that  were  a  goodly  sight  to  see ! 

— Harrington  Gresn. 


79 


The  Canal-Boat  Pilot,  Retired 

Lazily  floating  between  the  green  hills, 
Wheat-fields  and  meadows, — oh,  might  I  be 
Back  in  those  days  on  the  old  Raritan, 
Up  from  the  Delaware  through  to  the  sea ! 
Dreaming  away  the  long  slow  hours 
From  earliest  dawn  till  the  sun  goes  down. 
Gliding  by  Princeton  and  glimpsing  the  towers, 
Then  under  the  bridges  of  Brunswick  town ! 

— Harrington  Green. 


80 


Song 

In  the  still  night 
And  through  the  long-drawn  day 
My  thoughts  for  ever  take  their  way — 
Like  ships  sea-worn  that  sail  straight  for  the 
light 

That  marks  the  beach, 

The  goal  of  their  long  quest, 

Where  friends  await,  and  calm,  and  rest — 

So,  filled  with  longing  far  too  deep  for  speech, 

My  thoughts  seek  you. 
My  star  that  shines  above, 
Lighting  my  path  with  hope  and  love; 
My  thoughts  fly  there,  and  my  heart  follows, 
too. 

— Harrington  Green. 


8i 


Song 

As  strong  as  Death 

Is  Love,  who  holds  me  fast, 

And  I  am  his  while  life  shall  last, 

Both  yours  and  his,  as  long  as  I  have  breath. 

— Harrington  Green. 


82 


Song 

How  bold  a  lover  I  seem  to  be, 

I  have  caught  her  hand  and  held  my  lips 

Against  the  blushing  finger-tips, — 

My  heart  beat  fast  in  ecstasy ! 

I  mused, — if  now  the  gods  should  bring 

Ease,  riches,  power  and  renown. 

All  that  I  wished  my  life  to  crown, 

A  month  gone  past,  yea,  everything. 

And  bade  me  choose  'twixt  these  and  her; 

Would  my  glad  heart  the  choice  defer? 

Would  I  not  scorn  their  offering  ? 

— Harrington  Green. 


83 


Song 

We  talked  of  many  things  to-day, 
But  I  know  naught  of  what  we  said, 
Or  whether  it  was  grave  or  gay: 
But  oh !  how  carefully  I  read 
Each  wondrous  word  her  eyes  did  say  1 

— Harrington  Green. 


84 


The  Second  Coming  of  Christ 

"Christ  is  come !"  the  people  said, 
Through  all  the  worid  the  wonder  sped, 
The  cry  was  heard  in  distant  lands, — 
"Fulfilled  the  ancient  promise  stands, 
He  treads  the  lower  earth  again. 
In  flesh  and  blood  he  walks  with  men; 
Yea,  Christ  is  come !"    On  every  side 
Dismay  with  dumb  amazement  vied: 
"What  shall  we  do?"  the  people  cried, 
"What  should  we  say  if  we  should  meet  him, 
In  what  strange,  holy  language  greet  him?" 


8s 


"Ye  should  bring  gifts,  assuredly, 
Worthy  of  his  divinity," 
The  wise  men  said,  and  at  the  word. 
The  mighty  work-shops  woke  and  stirred; 
About  the  forges  blazing  bright, 
The  craftsmen  labored  day  and  night. 
At  length  two  gifts  stood  forth  complete 
(P'or  that  great  God-head  strangely  meet!), 
As  perfect  as  their  art  could  reach, 
The  cruel  sharp  jewels  shone  on  each: 
Two  gifts  with  neither  flaw  nor  dross, 
A  crown  of  thorns,  an  iron  cross ! 

— Harrington  Green. 


86 


In  Memory  of  the  Bandsmen, 
S.  S.  "Titanic" 

Lord,  when  Thou  touchest  Lyra's  seven 
Impatient  chords,  and  on  his  keys 

Fashions  the  organist  of  Heaven 
High  monochord  with  Thee  and  these: 

If  archangehc  eyes  return 

No  answer  to  angelic  gaze 
While  angels  and  archangels  yearn 

To  Thee,  the  Music  of  All  Days: 

Bid  Thy  seraphic  choirs  rest 

Their  plectrums  on  their  psalteries 

And  learn  of  these  Thou  hast  confessed 
Thy  deathless  Bandsmen  of  the  Seas. 


87 


Bid  Thine  angelic  trumpeters 

Restrain  their  trumpets'  golden  throats 
While  "Autumn"  echoes  with  the  Spheres 

And  songs  wherewith  they  cheered  the  boats ; 

Bid  Thine  exalted  cherubim 

Know  also  this,  Thy  new  renown, 

One  with  Thy  praise  that  cannot  dim 
Throughout  the  years  though  all  things 
drown. 

That  shall  not  die  though  bitter  death 
Should  fall  on  all  men  like  the  sea, 

Song  of  Thy  song,  breath  of  Thy  breath, 
Now  and  eternally. 


88 


And  when  Thou  touchest  Lyra's  seven 
Impatient  chords,  bid  on  his  keys 

Fashion  the  organist  of  Heaven 

High  monochord  with  Thee  and  these. 

— Brooks  Henderson. 


89 


Chanteur 

He  came  with  dawning  wind 

Singing,  and  faced  the  day; 
Not  of  the  night  behind 

He  made  his  lay. 
Because  his  face  was  fresh  as  morning  skies 

We  ask'd  his  bent, 
Because  as  deep  as  heaven  were  his  eyes; 

But  on  he  went. 

He  came  with  blaze  o'  sun 

Singing,  and  faced  the  heat 
Of  the  long  course  but  halfway  done 

With  weary  feet. 
Because  his  face  with  wind  and  dust  was  gray 

We  bade  him  rest  content. 
Because  we  knew  how  endless  was  the  way; 

But  on  he  went. 


90 


He  came  with  chill  o'  night 

Singing,  and  faced  the  cold. 
With  weariness  of  day  his  eyes  were  bright, 

His  look  was  bold. 
Because  his  song  was  rich  as  night  and  day 

And  he  forspent. 
We  hoped  he  would  forget  awhile  and  stay; 

But  on  he  went. 

— Brooks  Henderson. 


91 


The  New  Voyage 

Look  up  and  on,  0  Soul !    Across  the  dunes 
I  hear  the  husky  breathing  of  the  sea, 

The  fierce-mouthed  sea,  singing  Time's  canticle 
In  vague  and  mystic  words  of  prophecy. 

Brightly  the  beach  is  fretted  with  white  foam 
And  on  the  gleaming  bosom  of  the  sand 

The  sun,  half-heaven  high,  hangs  promises. 
O  Soul !     With  faith  and  hope  I  take  thy 
hand! 

Come !  let  us  man  our  galley  and  put  forth 
With  Youth's  bright  pennon  streaming  at  our 
mast! 

Let  us  look  back  no  more,  but  forge  ahead 
And  pray  to  God  the  sea  be  wild  and  vast ! 


92 


The  siren  voices  of  sweet  song  are  mute, 
Our  canvas  flags  impatient  in  the  gale. 

Shove  from  the  shore,  O  Soul,  and  let  us  fare, 
Thou  at  the  helm,  and  I  to  tend  the  sail ! 

Straight  be  our  course  away  from  glamoured 
dreams 
And  false  fair  promises,  on  to  our  goal ! 
Blow  winds  their  challenge  on  my  glad-eyed 
face, 
I  glory  in  thy  guidance,  O  my  Soul ! 

— Raymond  Peckham  H olden. 


93 


Wood  Smoke 

One  evening  as  the  dusk  came  softly  down, 
Walking  along  a  road  outside  the  town 
I  watched  the  sunset  burning  low  and  red, 
And  heard  the  leaves  a-rustling,  dry  and  dead, 
Harried  by  breezes  to  their  wintry  bed. 

By  chance  I  passed  a  fire  beside  the  way, 
With  small  flames  leaping  in  their  impish  play. 
Bright  in  the  dimness  of  the  dying  day; 
And  as  the  wind  blew  smoke  across  my  face 
Around  me  all  the  Bush  rose  up  apace. 

The  great  dim  forest  blotted  out  the  farms 

And  close  around  the  red  fire  flung  its  arms, 

Canoe  and  portage,  tent  and  camping  place. 

Ghosts  in  the  wood  smoke,  lingered  for  a  space. 

Then  passed,  and  with  them  went  a  comrade's 

face. 

— Herbert  Jones. 


94 


To  France 

Those  who  have  stood  for  thy  cause  when  the 

dark  was  around  thee, 
Those  who  have  pierced  through  the  shadows 

and  shining  have  found  thee, 
Those  who  have  held  to  their  faith  in  thy  cour- 
age and  power, 
Thy  spirit,  thy  honor,  thy  strength  for  a  terrible 

hour, 
Now  can  rejoice  that  they  see  thee  in  light  and 

in  glory. 
Facing  whatever  may  come  as  an  end  to  the 

story 
In  calm  undespairing,  with  steady  eyes  fixed  on 

the  morrow — 
The  mom  that  is  pregnant  with  blood  and  with 

death  and  with  sorrow. 


9S 


And  whether  the  victory  crowns  thee,  0  France 
the  eternal, 

Or  whether  the  smoke  and  the  dusk  of  a  night- 
fall infernal 

Gather  about  thee,  and  us,  and  the  foe;  and  all 
treasures 

Run  with  the  flooding  of  war  into  bottomless 
measures — 

Fall  what  befalls:  in  this  hour  all  those  who  are 
near  thee 

And  all  who  have  loved  thee,  they  rise  and  sa- 
lute and  revere  thee ! 

— Herbert  Jones. 


96 


The  Dreamer 

"Dream  me  no  dreams,"  cried  the  Practical 
Man, 
"  Mine  be  the  labor  from  day  to  day — 
Work  is  the  lot  of  our  human  clay; 

Toiling  and  moiling — 'tis  all  that  we  can." 

But  the  Dreamer  dreamed  him  dreams: 
Of  fairy  sounds  and  colors  gay. 
Of  golden  regions,  far  away, 
Of  lofty  thought  and  tender  heart 
Which  bleeds  to  feel  another's  smart, 
Of  httle  lives  of  common  men, 
Of  grinding  labor,  needless  pain. 
Of  cities  cleansed  and  made  anew 
By  one  who  is  both  strong  and  true, 

And  not  one  who  merely  seems. 


97 


And  the  Practical  Man  went  on  his  way, 
And  built  him  a  palace,  cheerful,  gay. 
He  built  him  a  house  where  he  might  store 
Of  wealth  and  pleasure  more  and  more. 

And   the  Dreamer  dreamed,  and  a  time  ap- 
peared— 
A  day  when  he  woke  and  told  his  dreams — 
And  they  shook  the  world,  and  they  loosed 
the  beams 
Of  the  house  which  the  Practical  Man  had 

reared. 

— Isidor  Kaufman. 


98 


Half-Lines 

I  sat  and  dreamed, 

And  round  about  the  early  summer  laughed; 

A  summer  sun  looked  down  upon 

A  field  of  r>'e  all  golden-green; 

A  summer  sultriness  was  in  the  air; 

Across  the  sandy  wagon-road 

A  butterfly  went  flitting  and  was  lost 

WTiere  yellow  gleamed  the  grass; 

And  the  sky  was  hazy-blue; 

And  in  the  sky  a  hawk 

With  outstretched  wing  sailed  on, 

And  flapped  his  wings,  and  rose, 

Circled,  and  climbed  as  up  a  winding  stair. 

Higher  and  higher. 


99 


I  sat  and  dreamed, 

And  saw  another  summer: 

The  sun  blazed  down 

On  blocks  of  ugly  masonry, 

And  sallow  faces,  pale,  and  thin,  and  worn, 

Moved  up  and  down  the  stony  streets. 

Oh — ceaselessly ! 

And  in  the  hollows  of  the  solid-seeming  piles 

Were  sweat,  and  sweltering  heat. 

And  sickly  babes  of  cheerless  mothers,  pain, 

And  dirt;  and  in  the  pain  and  dirt 

Crowded  a  thousand  lives; 

And  men  and  women  bent 

Forever  over  dead  machines 

That  yet  could  drive  the  souls  from  Hving  men; 

And  dark  and  hopeless  was  the  view  within. 

And  mean  and  narrow,  too,  was  all  without. 


lOO 


Except  where,  o'er  the  restless-hurtying  river, 

loomed 
A  bridge  of  steel, 
And  in  the  distance  rose. 
Ragged  and  sharp  against  the  setting  sun, 
A  line  of  beetling  buildings  straining  toward 

the  sky- 
Higher  and  higher. 

I  sat  and  dreamed, 

And  sitting,  heard  the  sounds  of  nature  round 

about. 
And  dreaming,  heard  the  sounds  of  man. 
For  a  light  breeze  was  whispering  through  the 

leaves 
Of  a  silvery  maple.    Then, 
A  slow-meandering  brook 


lOI 


Went  tinkling  o'er  its  shining  stones 

Musically. 

From  matted  grass  and  blossoming  weeds 

There  came  the  undercurrent  of 

The  manifold  outpouring  of  the  insect-heart. 

And  swaying  on  a  bow-shaped  twig  that  grew 

From  the  clambering  hedge, 

A  bold  song-sparrow  cocked  its  feathered  head^ 

And  swelled  its  little  throat,  and  sent 

A  flood  of  twittering  notes  across  the  vibrant 

air. 
But  in  my  thoughts  that  dreamed,  there  came 

and  went 
The  rumble  of  the  passing  car, 
The  rattle  of  the  wagon-wheel. 
The  whining  call  of  children  wailing  in   the 

night, 


I02 


The  whir  of  sewing-machines, 

The  exhorting  voice  of  beggars  and  of  Social- 
ists. 

Beyond  the  bend  o'  the  road,  I  heard 

The  laugh  of  little  children  splashing  in  the 
brook 

Or  switching  with  the  twigs  of  weeping-willow 
trees. 

But  through  my  thoughts  the  sounds  that  came, 

Like  the  dull  beat  of  dnmi  or  ebb  and  flow  of 
tide, 

Were  mingled  sounds — of  children  conning  o'er 
a  book, 

Of  weary  children  conning  o'er  a  book — 

Of  children  dancing  round  a  cellar-door, 

But  stealthily 

Of  men  in  prayer  unto  a  God  that  answered 
not 


103 


Of  women  in  the  throes  of  travail. 

Then,  all  the  pain  and  all  the  ignorance, 

And  all  the  crime  and  groping  fear 

(Which  is  but  ignorance) 

That  flourish  wheresoever  the  few  hold  much  of 

wealth 
'Mid  many  that  do  heave  and  gasp  and  crouch 

And  grin,  and  gasp  their  sunless  lives  away 

Oh,  all  of  pain  and  fear  and  ache  of  heart 
Came  to  my  soul,  came  in  a  throbbing  note 

that  rose 
Higher  and  higher. 

And  I  cried: 

'*0  Spirit  of  the  Universe! 

The  boundless  prairies,  and  the  llanos,  south, 

Lie  smiling  'neath  a  smiling  sun — 

Vast  fruitful  fields  where  only  cattle  are. 


104 


And  even  the  cattle  there 

Live  free  and  joyous,  as  their  nature  bids. 

But  in  the  cities  men,  divinely  made, 

Are  cramped,  and  hidden  from  the  sun  and 

wind, 
And  know  not  what  it  is  to  see 
The  water  playing  on  a  whitened  stone 
Or  hear  the  rat-tat  of  a  woodpecker. 
And  my  spirit  (which  is  part  of  Thee, 
O  Spirit  of  the  Universe !) 
Calls  out  in  anguish,  'Why?    Oh,  why?'  " 
But  answer  was  there  none. 
Only  a  rabbit  scurried  up  the  sandy  road; 
And  from  the  distance  came  the  whistling  of 
The  approaching  train — long,  and  shrill,  and 

high, 

And  higher . 

— Isidor  Kaufman. 


105 


Dawn 

His  radiant  fingers  so  adorning 
Earth  that  in  silent  joy  she  thrills, 

The  ancient  day  stands  every  morning 
Above  the  flowing  eastern  hills. 

This  day  the  new-born  world  hath  taken 
Within  his  mantling  arms  of  white, 

And  sent  her  forth  by  fear  unshaken 
To  walk  among  the  stars  in  light. 

Risen  with  laughter  unto  leaping, 
His  feet  untired,  undimmed  his  eyes, 

'The  old,  old  day  comes  up  from  sleeping, 
Fresh  as  a  flower,  for  new  emprise. 


1 06 


The  curtain  of  the  night  is  parted 
That  once  again  the  dawn  may  tread, 

In  spotless  garments,  ways  uncharted, 
And  death  a  million  times  is  dead. 

Slow  speechless  music  robed  in  splendor 

The  deep  sky  sings  eternally, 
With  childlike  wonderment  to  render 

Its  own  unwearied  symphony. 

Reborn  between  the  great  suns  spinning 
Forever  where  men's  prayers  ascend, 

God's  day  in  love  hath  its  beginning. 
And  the  beginning  hath  no  end. 

— George  B.  Logan,  Jr. 


107 


Youth  and  Age.     (Princeton) 

Old  ivied  walls  and  new  gray  towers 
Echo  the  same  recurrent  bell: 

And  youth,  who  hears  nor  counts  the  hours, 
And  age,  with  ancient  tales  to  tell 
Of  vengeful  time  and  wasted  days. 
Do  meet  and  pass  on  different  ways. 

''When  I  was  young" — "But  I  am  young!" 
They  face  each  other  with  distrust; 

One  would  reprove  the  braggart  tongue, — 
One  would  cry  out  on  Dryasdust: 
They  may  no  more  than  meet  and  pass 
Where  new  paths  cut  the  ancient  grass. 


108 


And  still  the  bell  from  ivied  walls 
Echoes  the  time  to  new  gray  towers. 

Ah,  Youth,  be  young,  whate'er  befalls: 
To  ponder  and  be  old  is  ours. 
Outside  the  Unseen  Watchmen  tell 
Each  passing  hour  with  "All  is  well !" 

— Francis  Charles  MacDonald. 


109 


Notice    ■ 

This  is  the  city  of  youth ! — 
Old  gray-beard,  get  you  gone ! 
Set  your  pack  of  thread-bare  truth 
On  your  back,  and  let  the  dawn 
Find  you  many  a  league  away: 
Youth  awaits  another  day: 
Woe  is  on  you  if  you  stay  1 

For  this  dawn  about  to  break 
Will  so  dazzle  your  old  sight 
That  the  sun  you  will  mistake 
For  the  very  spirit  of  night; 
And  the  breath  of  it,  the  breeze 
Blowing  freshly,  pole  to  pole. 
Clearing  worlds  of  old  disease, 
Will  be  stifling  to  your  soul. 


no 


You  would  never  leam  the  way 
Men  shall  go  from  place  to  place; 
What  your  old  directions  say 
Would  not  help  your  feet  to  trace 
Any  old  familiar  track 
Through  the  windings  of  the  town; 
Nor  your  ancient  almanac 
Tell  when  stars  go  up  and  down ! 

And  your  Truth  ? — Ay,  true  for  you,- 
Learned  of  your  own  experience; 
But  that  Truth  is  bom  anew 
Here  is  nature's  evidence: 
Days  that  fade  to  dawn  again; 
Sons  who  take  their  fathers'  place; 
Seed  and  bud  and  ripened  grain, 
And  the  progress  of  the  race ! 


Ill 


Yonder,  see,  they  rise  afar, 
On  the  dim  horizon's  line: 
Towers  beneath  a  setting  star: 
City  that  of  yours  and  mine. 
We  must  pack  and  go  forsooth; 
Soon  will  break  the  alien  dawn.  .  .  . 
Gray-beard,  this  is  the  city  of  youth: 
Vou  are  old  now, — get  you  gone ! 

— Francis  Charles  MacDonaJd. 


112 


In  the  Old  Graveyard,  Princeton 

Now  to  this  quiet  place  the  Hving  come 
To  make  their  question  of  the  faithful  dead. 
Eager  each  name  and  epitaph  is  read, 
And  many  a  deed  recorded,  like  the  drum 
Before  a  battle,  stirs  the  blood,  and  dumb 
White  marble  speaks  for  spirits  long  since  fled. 
"I  saved  the  state,"  and  "I  for  freedom  bled," 
''I  brought  the  word  of  God,"  some  say;  and 

some 
In  humbler  fashion  served  the  lives  of  men. 
But  all  of  them  have  this  as  well  to  say: 
"Let  not  our  limits  hold  your  ventures  back ! 
Know  that  we  came  beyond  the  rest;  and  then 
With  higher  aim  upon  the  forward  track 
Leave  us  at  greater  distance  every  day  ..." 

— Francis  Charles  MacDonald. 


"3 


On  an  Uncertain  Day  in  Winter 

O  purposeless  dull  day ! — Gray  Spring 
Astray  in  wintry  woods; 
Or  silvery  Autumn  borne  on  the  black  wing 
Of  laggard  lifeless  clouds ! 

O  motionless  grim  clouds ! — Proud  still 
To  fill  a  wintry  sky; 

Uncertain,  though,  to  break  upon  the  hill 
Or  blow  a  hurricane  by ! 

Bereft  of  passion,  and  inert, — 

Yet  shall  the  torrents  come 

And  tempests  blow.    O  happy  day,  thou  wert 

But  with  thy  purpose  dumb ! 


T14 


(And  that  my  aimless  life  might  break 
Even  in  passion  now !) 
For  lo,  the  winter  has  come  back  to  take 
Toll  of  the  leafless  bough; 

To  strike  against  the  hill  in  sleet 
And  beat  the  world  with  rain: 
I  see  Gray  Spring  on  silent  feet  retreat 
Down  the  far  southern  plain; 

The  Autumn  of  the  clouds  is  torn 

By  passionate  true  wind; — 

Would  that  such  purpose  might  be  Hfted,  borne 

Into  my  heart  and  mind. 

— Francis  Charles  MacDowild. 


"S 


Brothers 

Why  do  we  grow  apart, 

Brother  of  mine, 

O  brother  of  my  heart? 

We  are  the  branches  twain 

Of  the  same  vine. 

Of  the  same  blood  and  brain. 

One  father  both  begot, 

One  mother  bore. 

And  one  should  be  our  lot, 

One  bed,  one  board,  and  one 

Grave  evermore 

When  the  last  day  is  done. 


ii6 


But  now  you  walk  apart, 
Brother  of  mine, 

0  brother  of  my  heart. 
With  new  Hght  in  your  eyes 
Shining,  the  fine 

Clear  light  of  other  skies. 

What  do  you  see  beyond, 

Brother  of  mine, 

With  eyes  so  still  and  fond? 

1  strain  my  eyes  to  see, 
But  never  sign 

Is  vouchsafed  unto  me. 


117 


I  see  you  lean  to  hear 
What  some  one  sings 
Or  whispers  in  your  ear; 
And  yet  you  never  tell 
The  heavenly  things 
To  me  inaudible. 

And  will  the  day  soon  come, 

Brother  of  mine, 

When  you  shall  choose  your  home 

With  these  you  hear  and  see.  .  .  . 

Visions  divine. 

Voices  of  ecstasy? 


ii8 


Never  again  shall  we 

Be  as  before? — 

Free  of  each  other, — free 

Each  of  the  other's  lot?  ' 

In  the  new  lore 

Is  the  old  love  forgot? 

When  in  the  time  to  come 

You  see  the  sign, 

Then  will  they  bear  you  home, 

For  evermore  apart. 

Brother  of  mine, 

O  brother  of  my  heart? 

• — Francis  Charles  MacDonald. 


ITQ 


I.  M. 

Deal  bravely  with  him,  Death  1 

He  did  not  fear  thee, 

Nor  turn  with  coward  breath 

When  he  came  near  thee: 

Then  he  no  more  than  we 

Divined  thy  being; 

We  are  more  blind,  but  he 

Sees  with  thy  seeing. 

Why  was  it  Death  preferred 
Him,  the  new-parted? 
Listen.  ...    I  hear  his  word, 
Low  and  light-hearted 
Lingering  still,— the  jest 
But  touched  with  laughter: 
He  did  not  tire,  but  rest 
Is  his,  hereafter. 


I20 


Tire?    He?    The  plashy  field, 
His  man  to  cover.  .  .  . 
Mud-crusted,  heavy-heeled.  .  . 
0  valiant  lover 

Of  Princeton  !    Hear  her  name 
All  through  the  breathless 
Big  struggles  of  the  game ! 
.  .  .    Now  he  is  deathless. 

It  was  but  yesterday 
He  met  with  sorrow: 
A  bitter  game  to  play 
Through  a  long  morrow: 
No  thousand  friends  to  go 
Mad  with  their  cheering; 
But  surely  praises  flow 
,There,  in  God's  hearing.  .  .  . 


121 


So  clean  of  limb  and  soul, 
So  highly-minded ! 
The  years  were  his,  the  goal 
His.  .  .  .    We  are  blinded 
With  too  much  grief,  and  vain 
Our  grieving  o'er  him: 
Suddenly,  out  of  brief  pain. 
Peace  lay  before  him. 

And  of  that  peace  we  know 

Only  the  seeming, — 

Sleep,  and  the  deeper  flow 

Of  truer  dreaming; 

But  his,  a  braver  faith, — 

He  was  no  craven, — 

Deal  bravely  with  him.  Death, 

In  the  far  haven.  .  .  . 

— Francis  Charles  MacDonald. 


122 


The  Old  Sail-Boat 

Dismasted,  rudderless,  sides  agape, 
She  lies  upon  the  beach  a  wreck, — 
She  that  was  wont,  a  lovely  shape. 
To  sail  with  beauty  on  her  deck. 

Beneath  the  moon  before  the  wind 
She  sped,  and  floods  of  silvery  speech 
Poured  over  her:   yet  now  I  find 
Only  the  hulk  upon  the  beach. 

For  they  are  gone;  the  house  is  gone; 
Beauty  has  faded,  lips  are  still: 
The  old  boat  on  the  beach  alone 
Lies  in  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 

— Francis  Charles  MacDonald. 


123 


Advice 

Seek  not  to  number  friend  and  friend, 
Nor  let  their  names  by  rote  be  said, 
Lest  ere  thou  comest  to  the  end 
He  whom  thou  lovest  most  be  dead.  .  . 

I  sat  me  down  to  muse  and  count 
Those  whom  the  gods  had  granted  me: 
Writing  his  name  I  paused, — the  fount 
Of  friendship's  self  he  seemed  to  be. 


124 


My  heart  rose  up:  "Thank  God !"  I  said; 

And  wrote  a  dozen  names  beside. 

Ere  I  was  done  and  gone  to  bed 

They  brought  me  word  that  he  had  died. 

I  read  their  names,  but  only  one 
Is  he,  my  friend,  even  as  before: 
To  whom  no  bright-returning  sun 
Shall  light  my  feet  for  evermore. 

'  — Francis  Charles  MacDonald. 


125 


The  Visitor 

The  door  is  closed,  yet  in  you  come; 
The  clock  strikes  late, — you  do  not  go; 
I  shut  my  eyes,  my  lips  are  dumb, 
I  have  no  charity  to  show.  .  .  . 

My  eyes  are  shut,  but  you  I  see; 
My  lips  are  dumb,  with  you  I  speak; 
My  heart  is  yours  for  charity.  .  .  . 

Go,  go,  now, — for  my  soul  is  weak 

With  watching,  and  I  fain  would  sleep ! 
My  bed  is  here,  my  prayers  are  said. 
And  must  I  still  at  midnight  keep 
This  long  communion  with  the  dead? 


126 


Nay:  sleeping,  I  should  dream  of  you; 
Should  see  the  friendship  of  your  face; 
Should  old  acknowledgments  renew, 
And  hold  you  to  the  old  embrace.  .  .  . 

Then  stay,  friend:   there  is  much  to  say. 
At  best  I  can  but  think  and  rhyme 
Of  you,  who  died  but  yesterday 
And  have  been  dead  so  long  a  time ! 

— Francis  Charles  MacDonald. 


127 


On  the  Caribbean  Sea,  Before 
Kingston 

Two  bars  of  cloud, 

Long,  level,  angry-browed, 

Hang  over  Kingston  as  the  sun 

Touches  the  mountains  and  the  day  is  done. 

Kingston,  that  lies 

Indifferent  to  the  skies, 

Warm,  silent,  beautiful,  adream 

In  the  late  light  that  floods  now,  like  a  stream 

Of  amber  haze. 

Through  all  her  dusty  ways.  .  .  . 

Sad,  fading  beauty  that  will  dim 

When  the  sun  sinks  beyond   the  mountain's 

rim. 
Poor  broken  town 
Of  shattered  houses,  down 
Whose  melancholy  vistas  pass 
Children  of  Fate,  like  figures  in  the  glass 
Of  memor}'  ! 


128 


Destiny  shadows  thee: 

Arisen  as  thou  art  to-day, 

There  stand  the  mountains  still,  there  lies  the 

bay, 
Waiting  the  hour 
When  once  again  their  power 
Shall  be  unloosed,  and  all  their  might 
Falling  upon  thee  sink  thee  in  the  night.  .  .  . 

My  head  is  bowed.  .  .  . 

But  the  two  bars  of  cloud 

Catch  the  sun's  light  that  lowers  nigh 

And  suddenly  blaze  across  a  brazen  sky ! 

Blaze,  glow,  and  melt 

Into  a  radiant  belt, 

So  greatly  fashioned,  shining  bright, — 

Archangel's  girdle  thrown  upon  the  night ! 

Strange  jewels  these 

Upon  what  stranger  seas ! 


129 


Gray  sapphire,  amethystine  pearl, 

And  opal,  dropping  in  a  ruddy  whorl 

Of  gold, — a  mine 

Of  fabulous  design ! 

From  which  the  poet  or  the  king 

Might  figure  crowns  to  wear  or  songs  to  sing ! 

But  more,  yet  more 

Beyond  all  jewel-lore, 

The  precious  things  before  the  bars 

Of  night  are  strewn,  and  cover  up  the  stars! 

I  have  no  name 

For  orange  that  is  flame, 

For  flame  that  flakes  to  ashen  gray 

And  trembles  liquidly  and  fades  away.  .  .  . 

Such  a  high  red 

Befits  the  morning's  bed; 

Out-reds  the  ruby  and  the  rose; 


130 


And   here    the   Tyrian   splendor   spreads  and 

grows.  .  .  . 
Soul,  on  thy  guard ! 
Lo,  jasper  here,  and  sard. 
And  emerald  !    In  the  mass 
Up-piled,  the  Rainbow  and  the  Sea  of  Glass ! 
The  sea  runs  wine.  .  .  . 
Across  this  hand  of  mine 
Falls  blood,  as  from  a  cup.  .  .  . 
I  dare  to  lift  my  thirsting  spirit  up. 

After  such  sight 

Mine  eyes  long  for  the  night.  .  .  . 

Above  the  ship's  unsteady  mast 

On  toward  the  sunset,  lo !  the  moon  has  passed, 

And  opened  there 

Pale,  chary,  rare, 


131 


Cold,  cold,  her  quieter  array. 

Her  humbler  beauty  and  her  tenderer  sway 

Of  light.     O  dream 

Of  God  !    The  two  clouds  seem 

The  entrance  now  to  high  estate, 

And  bar,  be  sure,  the  way  to  the  straight  gate. 

We  may  not  pass: 

But  here  we  may  amass 

Glories;   and  we  may  gather  here 

Splendors:  may  pray  and  praise  and  love  and 

fear. 
Kingston,  beyond 
The  bay,  lies  still  and  fond; 
Dies  half  the  light  at  last,  and  stars 
Newly-articulate,  shine  by  the  cloud-bars. 


132 


Poor  shattered  town 

Of  houses  broken  down.  .  .  . 

By  whom?    Of  age-old  graves  unsealed.  .  .  . 

By  whom?     Why  question  love  or  wrath  re- 
vealed ? 

Say,  merely  chance, 

Or  luckless  circumstance: 

Eternal  struggle  of  sea  and  land: 

Men  perish  so:  we  may  not  understand. 

Another  day 

Shall  come  and  pass  away, 

And  all  this  blazonry  and  bloom.  .  .  . 

Kingston,  beneath  the  stars,  awaits  the 
doom.  .  .  . 

— Francis  Charles  MacDonald. 


^2>2> 


**  There's  Rosemary '' 

Like  a  white  flower  afloat  on  deep 
Mysterious  waters  of  the  night, 
Heavy  and  odorous,  half  asleep 
Between  the  stream  and  the  moonlight: 

Such,  now  I  fancy,  such  thou  art, 
O  alien  city  of  my  birth, — 
Still  the  fair  city  of  my  heart, 
One  perfect  city  of  the  earth ! 

.  .  .  Could  I  from  usual  modes  escape 
And  fold  me  in  a  magic  form, 
Out  of  my  memories  I  might  shape 
Temples  and  towers,  white  and  warm, 


134 


With  roofs  resplendent  in  the  sun; 
And  thatch  a  thousand  cottages 
All  bamboo-built,  and  every  one 
Embowered  in  richly-blossomed  trees; 

And  grow  palm-gardens  by  the  flanks 
Of  many-branched  mighty  streams, — 
Deep,  languorous  waters,  on  whose  banks 
A  universe  is  lost  in  dreams; 

And  set  a  fleet  of  boats  afloat, 
And  give  to  each  a  lazy  oar, 
Fill  them  with  mellow  fruit,  and  boat 
My  delicate  cargoes  shore  to  shore; 


135 


And  fix  a  finnament  of  stars 
In  constellations  new,  and  gay 
Bedeck  the  filmy  cloudy  bars 
With  tangles  of  the  Milky  Way; 

And  lose  Orion,  nor  the  loss 
Make  heaven  less  luminous  a  whit. 
For  yonder  would  the  Southern  Cross 
Rise  with  its  mysteries  infinite; 

And  show  the  way  the  Buddha  went 
By  setting  footprints  on  the  stone.  .  . 
(The  spirit  way  of  deep  content 
To  me,  alas,  is  all  unknown !) 


136 


...  Or,  nearer  yet,  of  dearer  days 
And  fonder  memories  far,  I  might 
A  broad-verandahed  mansion  raise, 
And  to  its  cordial  rooms  invite, 

Or  to  the  lawns,  o'erhung  with  shade 
Of  mango-branches,  low  with  fruit, 
To  many  a  flowery  esplanade 
And  paradises  absolute.  .  .  . 

Magnolias  whose  enchanted  scent 
Still  clings  to  English  fairy-tales, 
As  if  from  out  the  Orient 
Came  argosies  of  English  sails.  .  .  . 


137 


(O,  could  I  listen  once  again: 

There  is  a  grave  upon  a  hill 

Mournful  in  sunshine  or  in  rain. 

No  more:   the  magic  tones  are  still.  .  .  .) 

Go,  dreams  and  memories,  go !     I  fain 
Would  waken,  waken  and  forget.  .  .  . 
Here  are  the  gray  skies  and  the  rain, 
Bare  trees  in  windy  gardens  set; 

And  straight,  long  streets  where  people  pass, 
Traffic  and  chatter,  till  they  seem 
Themselves  but  shadows  in  a  glass, 
And  figments  of  another  dream ! 


138 


Another  dream :   ay,  dreaming  still ! 
.  .  .  Gray  towers  upon  an  autumn  sky, 
Forgotten  on  this  dream-locked  hill, 
While  yonder  all  the  world  goes  by ! 

O  flower-like  city  of  the  past ! 

0  city  of  the  towered  halls ! 

Ye  are  the  two  where,  first  and  last. 
The  day  rose  and  the  evening  falls: 

The  day  rose  on  a  golden  strand, 
Where  joys  at  end  were  joy's  increase: 
The  evening  falls,  and  through  the  land 

1  hear  the  folding  wings  of  peace ! 

— Francis  Charles  MacDonald. 


139 


Hopes 

Prison  bars  hem  me  round — 
Silent,  hard;  even  sound 

Flies  away. 
Rocky  walls,  dingy  stones 
Sleep  in  death;  phantom  moans 

Fly  away. 

Filmy  clouds,  soft  and  gray, 
Float  and  swing,  bend  and  sway 

O'er  my  head. 
'Neath  my  feet,  shadows  dull. 
Mirrored  mist,  paint  a  skull 

Like  my  head. 


140 


Chained  am  I.     Ever  here 
Fetters  harsh  ring  out  cheer 

From  the  dead. 
Clanking  Hnks,  iron  song, 
Twist  and  crawl,  call  out  long 

To  the  dead. 

But  a  beautiful  gown  of  blue  have  I — 

A  beautiful  silken  gown; 
And  a  beautiful  view  of  azure  sky — 

A  flying  blue  bird's  down. 
For  a  circular  frame  of  barred  glass — 

A  luminous,  dreamy  frame — 
Gives  a  jubilant  sun  a  way  to  pass 

With  rosily  golden  frame; 
Leaves  an  emerald  gleam  of  budding  grass 

From  hills  of  a  towered  town. 


141 


On  their  feverish  slopes  of  waving  grain — 

On  drowsily  happy  slopes — 
Where  the  blossoming  hosts  of  clover  reign 

As  proud  as  heliotropes — 
Dwells   a  rambling- wayed   realm   of  journeys 
sought 

In  vain  in  the  land  of  life; 
Lives  a  heaven-born  honor  the  Fates  allot 

For  constant  and  earnest  strife. 
It's  a  dearly  earned  gift  and  dearly  bought — • 

This  tower-crowned  land  of  hopes. 


142 


Misty  head,  shackled  feet 
Mean  but  naught,  are  but  sweet 

To  my  heart. 
Over  there,  God  has  placed 
Hope  in  state,  just  a  taste 

For  my  heart. 

— John  S.  Nicholas. 


143 


Iphigeneia 

My  father  sent  a  ship  and  men  who  cried: 
''Come,  wed  Achilles!"    So  I  rose,  and  went, 
And  came  where  they  were  gathered,  at  his 

tent. 
(Slowly  the  great  ships  swung  upon  the  tide; 
Ever   the  wind  blew  west-ward.)     Laughing- 
eyed 
I  sought  my  future  lord,  all  innocent 
Of  the  grim  spouse  those  stern-eyed  chieftains 

meant. 
None  spoke.    Then,  suddenly,  I  knew  he  lied. 


144 


At  first  I  wept  a  little,  and  besought — 
Being  but  young,  and  half-afraid  to  die — 
But  when  I  saw  my  father's  face,  and  heard 
His  broken  weeping,  and  moreover  thought 
That  no  one  of  the  kings  did  more  than  I, 
I  kissed  him  twice,  and  knelt  without  a  word. 

— Ainsworth  O'Brien-Moore. 


145 


Polyphemus  and  Galataea 

Methought  I  heard  the  Cyclopean  voice 

Of  Polj^phemus  ringing  through  the  wood: 

"0  Galataea,  Galataea  mine, 

Softer  than  sleep,  more  sweet  than  honey-comb, 

O  Galataea,  come  and  be  my  love ! 

Far  up  my  valley  whence  the  stream  plays 

down 
With  many  a  leap  and  many  a  water-fall, 
My  cavern  hides  in  the  slender  cypress-trees. 
Mossy  and  cool  and  slumbrous  wuth  the  sound 
Of  many  rills.     WTiite-speckled  is  the  grass — 
Pale  grass  made  pallider  with  dews — 
White-speckled  with  the  flocks  that  shall  be 

thine. 


146 


Thine,  Galataea,  all  my  flocks  and  I. 

O  lovely  Galataea,  scorn  me  not. 

Sweet  is  the  grass  to  lie  in,  sweet  the  sound 

Of  swallows  twittering  through  the  dusky  wood ; 

Sweet  are  the  warm  winds  blowing  from  the 

South, 
Gentle  the  wavering  breezes,  cool  the  shade. 
O  Galataea,  Galataea  mine. 
Leave  the  gray  sea  and  murky  ocean  deeps; 
Leave  the  gray  sea,  oh,  dwell  therein  no  more; 
The  sea  is  cold  and  windless,  and  the  sun 
Shines   not  within   the   sea!    Oh,   come,   my 

love, 
Come,  Galataea,  come !    Come  live  with  me  !'* 


147 


He    ceased    and    sighed— as   loudly    as   when 

winds 
Imprisoned  by  the  sea  within  a  cave 
Sigh  out  to  freedom— then  again  began, 
"Oh  Galataea,  cruel  one,  well  I  know 
That  you  have  scorned  me,  scorned  me  and 

my  love. 
Nor  deemed  my  love  a  worthy  mate  of  thine ! 
Oh,  would  the  yellow  sun  had  never  come 
To  dry  the  dews  and  ope  the  eyes  of  morn. 
Would  I  had  slept  forever  in  my  cave, 
Would  I  had  died,  had  died  before  that  day 
When  first  I  saw  thee,  naked  loveliness. 
Leaping  along  the  hollows  of  the  sea!" 

— Ainsworth  O'Brien-Moore. 


148 


The  Diver 

Poised  on  a  ledge  above  the  limpid  pool, 
Graceful  in  pride  of  youth  and  strength  he 

stands, 
Ready  to  seek  the  water's  shadowy  cool 
Where  Naiads  call  to  hhn  with  outstretched 

hands. 

O  youth,  thy  slight  imperious  form  recalls 
The  naked  beauty  of  that  rhythmic  frieze 
Graven  by  Phidias  on  Athena's  walls, 
Kissed  by  the  blue  Aegean's  murmuring  breeze. 


149 


Vision  of  sea-girt  isles  and  vine-clad  hills 
Crowned   by   white   temples   and   green   olive 

groves 
Where  Thyrsis'  song  the  fair  Amyra  thrills 
And  Dionysus  with  his  chorus  roves. 

A  moment's  pause — the  rippling  muscles  gleam 
Lit  by  the  sunlight  glancing  through  the  trees; 
And  then  he  gathers  tense  to  leap— 0  dream 
Of  Phoebus  carven  by  Praxiteles  ! 

— Percy  Rivington  Pyne,  Jr. 


150 


Youth's  Litany 

Thou  in  whose  sight  a  thousand  ages  are 
But  as  the  mouldering  hours  of  yesterday; 
Thou  who  hast  fixed  each  separate  shining  star 
In  boundless  space,  take  not  my  youth  away. 

By  the  ripe  orchards,  and  the  dun-red  hills. 
By  creaking  oaks,  and  maples  turned  to  flame, 
By  the  clear  air  and  sharp  west  wind  that  fills 
The  naked  leaf-stripped  woods  with  moaning 
shame ; 

By  the  first  feeling  of  returning  Spring 
When  all  the  winter  rushes  out  in  rain. 
By  the  sweet  carols  that  the  wood-birds  sing, 
By  the  fresh  green  of  newly  sprouted  grain; 


151 


By  golden  fields  of  ripened  August  wheat, 
By  headlong  brooks  and  peaceful-flowing 

streams, 
By  secret  shady  woods  where  lovers  meet 
And   dream   their   cloud-wrought,   iris-colored 

dreams; 

By  moonlit  nights  and  slowly  dying  West, 
By  sun-kissed  walls  and  scent  of  new-mown 

hay. 
By  every  scene  upon  this  glad  earth  blessed, 
Take  not,  O  Lord,  take  not  my  youth  away ! 

— Percy  Rivington  Pyne,  Jr. 


152 


Venezia 

I  dream  of  the  slumbering  sea 
And  the  silent  summer  nights, 
Of  your  eyes'  deep  mystery 
And  the  swaying  gondola  lights. 

Out  on  the  still  lagoon 
Where  the  slow  felluccas  glide 
We  lay  in  the  light  of  the  moon 
Held  by  its  beauty  and  pride. 

City  of  azure  and  gold, 
Is  the  sunshine  still  as  bright? 
Is  there  singing  still  as  of  old 
In  the  solemn  canals  at  night? 

— Percy  Rivington  Pyne,  Jr. 


153 


Ma  Missis  an'  Ma  Boss 

In  de  evenin'  I'll  be  settin' 

By  de  stove  to  steal  a  nap, 

Dreamin'  drowsy-like  an'  lettin' 

Supper  settle  on  my  lap.  .  .  . 

One  fine  evenin'  I  was  wishin' 

'Fore  de  fire  wid  my  pipe — 

Wishin'  fo'  de  days  of  fishin', 

Thinkin'  how  us  boys  shot  snipe. 

All  to  once  I  hears  a  patter, 

Raises  up  an'  takes  a  look, — 

" Yuh  comes  Missis !    What's  de  matter? 

O  !   she  wants  de  order-book !" 

"Evenin',  Missis,"  says  I,  risin' 

Missis'  smilin'  face  to  greet, 


154 


"Sholy  you  keeps  young  surprisin', 

An'  you  always  did  look  sweet." 

Den  she  say,  "Good  evenin',  Jimmie, 

What  you  need?    You  better  search 

Thro'  de  shelves."    An'  den  she  gimmie 

Sumthin'  fuh  ma  cullud  church. 

''Thank  you,  Miss !  .  .  .    I'm  out  o'  jelly, 

Den  I  needs  some  sugar,  rice, 

Lard, — and  den  de  Boss,  Miss  Nellie, 

Thought  dat  sausage  mighty  nice." 

"All  right,  Jim.    And  now  that  furnace," 

Says  she  in  dat  business  way, 

"Keep  it  goin',  but  don't  burn  us — 

My  haid's  mos'  been  split  all  day." 

"Yas'm,"  says  I,  "but  de  boss 

Was  near  'bout  froze  de  yuther  night 


155 


When  I  come  home  from  across 

De  fields,  we  like  ter  had  a  fight. 

An'  he  went  to  quarrel'n'  wid  me — 

I  stood  still  like  I  was  deaf — 

Missis,  dat's  de  way — I  know'd  he 

Couldn't  quarrel  by  hissef ! 

But  dere  ain't  no  heart  dat's  bigger — 

Why  ma  Boss  is  near  a  saint, 

An'  I'll  lambaste  any  nigger 

That'll  dare  to  say  he  ain't !" 

Den  ma  Missis  smile  an'  said, 

"Good  night,"  and  stahted  thro'  de  house, 

''Jim,  you  better  go  on  to  bed," 

Den  all  was  quiet  ez  a  mouse. 

Ez  I  fell  to  thinkin',  dreamin' 

O'  my  ole-time  playful  ways 


156 


Everything  commenct  ter  seemin' 

Mighty  different  from  dem  days, 

When  I  used  to  think  that  somewhere- 

Splindlin',  lanky  little  coon — 

I  mus'  git  a  job;   I  come  dere 

Never  spectin',  little  loon — 

Dat  de  Good  Lord  He  done  sent  me 

To  dis  place  to  live  an'  die — 

All  dem  cupboards  never  empty, 

An'  dis  cook  dat  sho'  kin  fry ! 

Why,  de  only  diffrunce  'tween  us, — 

Me'n  de  Boss's  reg'Iar  son, 

An'  you'd  b'lieve  it  ef  you  seen  us — 

Is,  I'se  an  adopted  one ! 

Used  ter  stand  us  up  together, 

Ask  us  whar  we  rode  dem  mules, 


IS7 


'Low  he'd  flail  one  wid  de  yuther, 
Wuthless  little  pair  o'  fools ! 
Sometimes  I  ketch  fits  from  Missis, 
When  de  house  gits  hot  ez  stew; 
An'  de  Boss  gits  mad,  but  dis  is 
'Bout  de  bes'  dat  I  could  do. 
An'  I  spec'  you  couldn't  ever 
Take  me  'way  at  any  cos', 
Fuh,  I  'low  I  wouldn't  never 
Leave  ma  Missis  an'  ma  Boss ! 

— Samtiel  Moor  Shoemaker,  Jr. 


iS8 


My  Mother 

Mother !    Not  yours  the  haloed  face 
Some  sons  have  said  that  they  recall 
At  seeing  in  her  gilded  place, 
Madonna  painted  on  a  wall. 

"Heaven  seemed  to  stream  out  through  her 

eyes; 
Her  brow  was  pure,"  they  say,  "as  flowers; 
Patient  her  hands  that  used  to  rise 
In  blessings  that  refreshed  like  showers." 

Of  you  my  image  is  not  such — 
The  mystic  calm  that  brings  down  heaven, 
Goodness  to  wonder  at,  not  touch, 
That  scarce  needs  pray  to  be  forgiven. 


159 


Yours  is  an  eager,  human  face; 
Your  goodness  does  not  stand  aloof 
From  life's  uncolored  commonplace, 
Nor  flee  its  irksome  warp  and  woof. 

Not  contemplation  yours,  but  work, 
Cradled  in  love,  inspired  by  prayer, 
Of  routine  sort  where  others  shirk 
To  seek  some  higher,  saintlier  care. 

The  enthusiasm  you  possess. 
Those  traits  too  buoyant  to  define 
Are  more  to  me  than  holiness. 
Detached  from  earth,  howe'er  divine ! 

— Samuel  Moor  Shoemaker,  Jr. 


160 


The  Knights  at  Rhodes 

Northward  we  look  across  the  sea — 
The  ridges  rolling,  rolling; 

And  southward  to  the  Turkish  lines— 
The  guns  a  death-knell  tolling. 

Will  Genoa  not  send  a  fleet, 
Nor  yet  one  lonely  galley? 

Will  Christendom  not  lend  one  man 
To  die  in  our  last  rally? 

They  stormed  the  outer  wall  to-day; 

The  end  will  be  to-morrow. 
And  not  a  Christian  sword  has  come 

To  aid  us  in  our  sorrow. 


i6i 


With  Turk  before,  and  sea  behind, 
Cut  off,  betrayed,  forsaken, — 

What,  bend  we  then  the  knee  to  grace, 
Or  meet  the  fate  unshaken? 

But  no  !  Fight  on  a  greater  fight ! 

^\^lat  count  our  little  losses. 
If  still  against  the  infidel 

We  plant  our  Christian  crosses? 

And  this  upon  our  tombstones  write — 

Begrudge  us  not  our  story — 
"They  died  in  fighting  Christ's  own  fight, 

And  this  alone  is  glory." 


162 


The  honor  of  our  cloven  mail 

What  scimitar  can  sever ! 
Be  men  to-day  for  half  an  hour, 

And  heroes  then — forever. 

— George  Rippey  Stewart,  Jr. 


163 


From  a  Freshman  Window  — 
Spring  Term 

Two  pigeons  mutter  on  the  slated  roof 
And  hobble  down  into  the  littered  eaves. 
Up  in  the  sky  a  cloud  that  holds  aloof 
Looks  down  and  wonders.     Where  are  all  the 
leaves  ? 

A  ball  bounds  down  the  street,  and  from  above 
I  see  it  race  beneath  a  stumbling  horse; 
A  lad  darts  for  the  ball  and  flings  his  glove 
In  a  vain  effort  to  arrest  its  course. 


164 


With  sinking  legs  and  with  unsteady  feet 
That    sometimes   falter   from    their    rhythmic 

stride 
Two  panting  runners  steam  along  the  street; 
They  wag  their  glowing  heads  from  side  to  side. 

The  dainty  lass  whom  all  the  lads  adore 
Strolls  down  the  sidewalk  with  self-conscious 

tread, 
Beside  a  blithe  and  hatless  sophomore.  .  .  . 
I  breathe  a  curse  on  his  oblivious  head. 

— Keene  Wallis. 


165 


The  Quarry 

The  floor-like  rock  lies  round  us  yellow, 
Gigantic  clififs  rise  round  us  here, 

The  melting  blue  becomes  more  mellow, 
The  balmy  air  becomes  more  clear. 

Unbroken  blocks  jut  in  like  wedges 
Upon  a  sinful  stone-floored  pool 

Whose  surface  with  its  soft-fringed  edges 
Of  scum-flecks  lies  sedately  cool. 

The  waveless  deeps  with  their  deposit 
Of  rock-dust  tremble  and  are  still. 

The  tremor  passes  by  .  .  .  what  was  it 
That  made  this  momentary  thrill? 


i66 


The  rock  crusher  with  rock-dust  coated 
Stands  with  its  bump  and  rattle  stilled. 

Its  chain  and  drive-wheels  rust  unnoted 
Which  once  with  clank  and  clatter  shrilled. 

The  crumbling  cliffs  with  blue  slag  slated 
Rise  lordly,  wounded  as  they  are; 

A  single  hammer  stroke,  belated. 
Rings  stinging  on  a  stone  afar. 

— Keene  Wallis. 


167 


Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen 

Man   hears   me   not,    nor   God,    but   fiendish 
choirs 
Who  trained  me,  tremble  when  I  strike  the 
strings; 
They  scurry  up  from  Hell  and  leave  the  fires, 
To  beat  time  to  mine  air  with  webbed  bats' 
wings : 
Klingsohr   and   Nanias   come   whose   lore   re- 
nowned me, 
Gaunt  hippogriffs  come  gathering  around  me, 
My  vast  chimaera  tunes  its  voice  and  sings. 


i68 


And  in  a  circle  with  my  scorching  gaze 

Small  basilisks  in  mid-air  hang  in  line, 
They  shrink  away,  and  though  their  eyeballs 
blaze 
Their  eyes  of  glowing  coals  recoil  from  mine: 
God   hears  me   not,   nor   man   in   his   swine- 
wallow, 
But  Venus  hears  me  in  her  vague  hill's  hollow 
And  bums  in  beauty,  rose-white  and  divine. 

I  pierce  the  secrets  of  the  singing  skies, 
I  see  the  angels  though  they  see  not  me, 

I  haunt  high  Heaven  with  my  mortal  eyes 
Which  mine  immortal  eyes  may  never  see: 

Man  hears  me  not,  nor  God  above  in  Heaven: 

Mathilde  hears  me  through  an  evil  sweven, 
And  shudders  up  to  press  my  scornful  knee. 


169 


I  loved  her  once  while  Wolfram  was  her  choice, 
And  now  I  care  not  when  her  soul  lies  bare, 

Her  sighs  are  drowned  out  by  my  singing  voice, 
Her  moans  are  silenced  by  the  music's  blare; 

Man  hears  me  not,  nor  God;  Mathilde  hears 
me 

And  shudders  in  her  terror  for  she  fears  me.  .  .  . 
But  hark  to  Wolfram  singing  over  there. 

Sing,  little  Wolfram,  with  thy  caroling. 

Sing  blue  skies,  green  trees,  ladies,  and  the 
sword, 
And  men  will  hear  thee,  praise  thee,  crown 
thee  king.  .  .  . 
Oh  puny  poet,  thine  be  that  reward ! 
Man  hears  me  not,  nor  God,  the  empyrean 
Blinks  down  unmoved  by  my  Satanic  paean, 
My  merciless  arraignment  of  the  Lord. 


170 


I  see  you  all,  \'e  men  of  harp  or  shield 

Who   fight   and   sing   and    never   strive   to 
know, 
But  I  know  all  that  God  would  keep  concealed : 
Heaven  above,  Earth  here,  and  Hell  below. 
And  I  have  danced  in  Venus'  secret  revels, 
And  I  have  seen  that  gods  are  changed   to 
devils 
On  earth  as  well  as  in  those  realms  of  woe. 

Man  hears  me  not,  nor  God,  my  rolling  rhymes 
Burn  through  them,  bite  them,  but  they  feel 
them  not; 
Ye  demons,  disappear  into  your  climes 
Of   tumbling,   rumbling   hell-flames,    hissing 
hot. 
Man  hears  me  not,  nor  God,  my  demon  muses, 
Hippogrifis,  basilisks,  the  world  refuses 
To  hear  us,  let  us  leave  them  to  their  lot. 


171 


Hell  in  love,  Hell  in  life,  and  Hell  in  death, 
These  have  been  mine,  and  I  shall  die  in 
shame ; 
But  I  see  all  as  Klingsohr  coimseleth. 

And  pure  love,  pure  life,  Heaven  were  the 

same: 

Man  hears  me  not,  nor  God,  but  Satan  heareth 

And   grins  with   wide   jaws   as   my   set   time 

neareth, 

And  I  must  burn,  but  I  shall  have  my  game. 

Prince,  pay  to  Wolfram  his  appointed  meed, 

But  thou,  expectant  executioner. 
Though  I  was  vanquished,  shalt  not  make  me 
bleed.  .  .  . 
Hoarse-voiced    chimaera,    make    thy    vast 
wings  whir: 
Man  hears  me  not,  nor  God  .  .  .  steady,  sir, 

steady. 
Upward  into  the  ether,  art  thou  ready?  .  .  . 
Farewell,  ye  earthlings  . .  .  faster,  higher,  sir ! 

— Keene  Wallis. 


172 


The  Puppet-Show 

The  Lord  God  made  him  a  puppet-show 

To  speed  the  lagging  hours, 
And  you  and  I  are  His  actor-men, 

And  His  stage  this  world  of  ours. 

And  when  He's  feeling  glad  and  gay- 
He  calls  for  comedy; 

Then  you  and  I  do  laugh  and  play 
And  sing  right  merrily. 

But  when  He  feels  a  sadder  mood, 

As  even  God  will  do, 
He  casts  us  for  a  tragedy 

And  breaks  a  heart  or  two. 

— r.  K.  Whipple. 


173 


Epistle 

Sent  with  a  copy  of  Lionel  Johnson's  verses 

When  icy  blasts  of  hoar  December  blow, 
And  pil'd  in  drifts  lies  Januarys  snow; 
When  blazing  logs,  old  frosty  Winter  flout. 
And  all  is  warm  within,  as  cold  without; 
When  empty  tea-cups,  and  the  failing  light 
A   pleasure    make    repose,    and    indolence,   a 

right: 
Then    wander,    for    a    time,     'neath    RAD- 

CLIFFE'S  dome, 
"IN  THOSE  HIGH  PLACES  THAT  ARE 

BEAUTY'S  HOME." 


174 


The  Faith  of  Rome  let  fire  your  ardour  next, 
With  COLLAUDABANT  SANCTAE  for  your 

text : 
Then  turn  to  mystic  INISFAIL,  and  melt 
With  pity  for  the  patient,  hopeful  Celt: 
Become  a  Wykehamist,  and  proudly  view 
The    fame    of   WINCHESTER,    the   past   of 

NEW. 

Where'er  you  read,  our  Poet  still  you'll  find 
A  man  of  learning,  and  a  man  of  mind, 
Whose  measured  song  grows  neither  wild  nor 

faint, 
Whom  Nature's  fire,  as  well  as  ArCs  restraint, 
Kept  still  in  that  just  mean,  which  critics  hold 
Correct — not  frigid,  nor  unduly  bold. 


175 


But  when  you  see,  in  flames  of  dying  fires, 
That    City    of    strong   Tow'rs    and   clust'ring 

Spires, 
On  this  our  little  Town  look  not  with  scorn. 
Its  Cloisters  little  weather'd.  Courts  less  worn, 
Not  immemorial,  but  always  young, 
Where  probably  no  Muse  has  ever  sung. 
And  yet,  when  summer  days  are  hot  and  still, 
Hid  on  the  bosom  of  its  verdant  hill. 
It,  too,  might  share,  in  spite  of  Jersey  sand, 
"THE    FRESH    GREEN    LAP    OF    FAIR 

KING  RICHARD'S  LAND." 

— r.  K.  Whipple. 


176 


Next  May 

Next  May  the  cherry-blossoms  bright 
Will  make  the  meadows  all  as  white,  " 
And  Stony  Brook  will  be  as  fair 
With  purple  violets  everywhere; 
In  woodlands  where  the  thrushes  sing, 
Next  year  the  self-same  song  will  ring 
For  others,  as  for  us  to-day. 
And  in  the  deep  grass  where  we  lay 
And  loitered  sunlit  hours  of  ease. 
They'll  lie  outstretched  beneath  the  trees, 
And  homeward  fare  when  silently 
Comes  golden  dusk — even  as  we. 


177 


And  when  the  Millstone  mirrors  plain 
The  fresh  green  boughs  of  spring  again, 
Canoes  will  thread  its  leafy  maze; 
By  deeper  pools  where  sunlight  plays, 
Bathers  will  strip  and  dive  once  more, 
And  laughter  echo,  shore  to  shore. 
O  meadow,  woodland,  stream,  and  field, 
The  halycon  hours  and  days  you  yield 
May  others  know  as  well  as  we. 
And  going,  leave  their  hearts  in  fee: — 
And  if  we  never  come  again, 
Live  on  in  hearts  of  other  men ! 

—T.  K.  Whipple. 


178 


Princeton:   February,  1916 

She  sleeps  like  some  old  town  with  guarded 
gate. 

Was  ever  footfall  quick  or  shouting  shrill? 
Her  lazy  laughter  drowses;  it  is  late; 

The  windows  darken  and  the  streets  are  still. 

Outside,  the  frozen  air  which  no  bells  break 
Of  nasal  clangor  or  of  fragile  chime, — 

Only,  to  speed  the  Winter,  faint  clocks  wake, 
Lest  we  may  fear  his  finger  upon  Time. 


179 


But  now  the  sounds  of  mirth  and  music  cease. 
Have  we  no  ears  for  anything  but  mirth? 

How  should  we  hope  for  quietude  or  peace, 
Where  learning  lives  and  human  souls  find 
birth? 

Our  town  is  dark  with  struggle;  fierce  and  sweet 
We  catch  the  echoing  of  eager  cries, 

As  generations  press  along  the  street, 

Young  and  half-seeing  with  bewildered  eyes. 

— Edmund  Wilson,  Jr. 


i8o 


Swift 


Stella 

Because  I  doubted  friend  and  cause  and  God, 
Proved  false  to  all,  lest  they  prove  false  to  me, 
By  gazing  at  the  sole  star  I  could  see 
I  walked  erect  the  road  I  had  to  plod. 
Men  would  have  laughed,  no  doubt,  and  found 

it  odd, 
Had  they  known  how  naif  the  Dean  could  be; 
And  so  I  walked  in  starlight  secretly 
That  they  might  never  see  me  spare  the  rod. 

But  when  my  star  went  out,  I  stood  benighted, 
Without  a  path.     The  door  was  still  ajar 
Where  kindliness  and  courage  were  not  dead; 
But,  mocking  that  thin  beam,  like  one  affrighted 
I  swore  that  I  had  lost  the  only  star 
And  shut  the  door  and  bolted  it  and  fled. 


i»i 


II 

The  Dark  Hour 

They  marvel  that  their  vileness  can  provoke 
A  flame  to  scorch  me,  while  they  feel  it  not. 
The  sacred  brand  must  smoulder  here  how  hot ! 
To  char  the  bearer,  choked  with  stench  and 

smoke. 
Now,  would  it  not  be  something  of  a  joke, 
Were  I  to  tell  them  plainly  on  the  spot 
That  all  my  wrath  is  nothing  but  a  plot 
To  hide  my  own  corruption  with  a  cloak  ? 

The  cruelty  is  mine,  I  curse  so  loud. 
And  mine  the  vapid  folly  I  deride. 
And  mine  the  filth  I  find  in  everyone. 
Pride  is  my  God  and  so  I  lash  the  proud. 
Oh,  Madness,  who  alone  can  break  my  pride. 
Come,  blur  my  soul's  black  nightmare  and  have 

done! 

— Edmund  Wilson,  Jr. 


182 


A  Rose  Found  in  a  Greek 
Dictionary 

In  what  dead  summer  came  her  petals  here  ? 
By  what  dead  fingers  dropped  to  mark  a  page, 
Among  the  Httle  words  that  live  so  clear 
Beside  this  dimness  and  decay  of  age  ? 

This  heavy  tomb,  whose  walls  can  only  bleach 
Her  hue,  shall  make  the  lightest  leaf  to  spring 
From  the  full-petalled  flower  of  ancient  speech, 
The  frailest  epigram,  a  deathless  thing. 

— Edmund  Wilson,  Jr. 


183 


The  Prelude 

Our  autumns  were  unreal  with  the  new: 

New  men  and  books  we  found,  new  hopes  we 
had, 

While  dismal  rains  deplored  what  we  might  do, 
Or  sunshine,  when  the  very  sun  was  sad. 

Etched   towers   and  pale   skies  would   winter 
bring; 
We  thought  and  questioned,  swore  to  this  or 
that. 
Till  questions  and  resolves  died  out  in  spring, 
Nor  vexed  the  trees  which  shadowed  where 
we  sat. 


184 


All  pondering,  we  seldom  spoke  our  thought; 

Nor,  gazing,  often  let  ourselves  be  seen, 
But,  once  away,  gauged  what  that  talk  had 
taught; 

Knew,  only  then,  how  great  that  glimpse  had 

been. 

— Edmund  Wilson,  Jr. 


185 


Gifts 
Princeton — 1912 

Three  things  would  I  bring  to  you, 
Bring  as  a  man  to  his  mother  returning; 
A  heart  that  is  young  despite  the  years; 
The  same  old  unfulfilUd  yearning; 
And  all  in  all,  let  be  what  would, 
The  keen,  swift  faith  that  God  is  good. 

For  these  things  do  I  owe  to  you, 

Taught  me  once  when  I  was  a  boy; 

A  nd  only  the  poor  in  heart  forget 

In  graver  times  what  they  knew  in  joy, 

Or  think  since  their  own  smaU  world  is  sad. 

That  the  heart  of  the  world  is  aught  but  glad. 


186 


Love  of  towers  I  learned  from  you, 
Skyward  held  like  hopes  of  men; 
Love  of  bells  across  the  fields 
Heard  at  dusk  intoned — and  then 
Just  the  way  a  yellow  light 
Fell  from  a  window  in  the  night. 

The  world  is  a  world  of  truth,  I  know. 
And  man  must  live  by  the  truth,  or  die; 
But  truth  is  neither  a  poor  dried  thing 
Nor  a  strumpet,  tawdry,  gorgeous  lie; 
But  just  the  fact,  that  by  doing  and  giving. 
Young  dreams  come  true  while  a  man  is  living. 

So  I  would  bring  three  gifts  to  you, 
Got  from  you  by  loving  and  learning; 
A  heart  that  is  young  despite  the  years; 
The  same  old  unfulfilled  yearning; 
And  all  in  all,  let  be  what  would, 
The  keen,  swift  faith  that  God  is  good. 

— Maxwell  Strulhers  Burt. 


187 


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